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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. Copyright ]So. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



LOG CABIN POEMS 



BY COMMODORE ROLLINGPIN. 



Leg Cabin Poems, 16mo. $1.25. 

Duck Creek Ballads, 16mo. $1.25. 

Thomas Rutherton (a Novel), 16mo. $1.25. 

Mississippi River Yarns, 16 mo. $1.25. 

All Sorts of People, 16mo. $1.25. 

All Illustrated. 




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LOG CKBIN POEMS 



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COMMODORE^ROLLINGPIN 

Author of "Thomas Rutherton," "Duck 

Creek Ballads. "/etc. 






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ST. LOUIS 

ROLLINGPIN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
1897 

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Copyright 1897 

by 

John Henton Carter 




The task complete, the brain at rest, 
The weary hand lets fall the pen : 
The author's secrets all confessed, 
/To stands before his countrymen 
And waits the verdict once again . 

Moved by an inborn love, he sought 
To recreate some vanished scene, 
Wherein our sturdy fathers wrought 
In furrowed fields or meadows green, 
And episodes that intervene. 

Of journeying by land and stream, 
And sad disasters that befell 
The hapless ones — these wake a dream 
On which the memory's prone to dwell - 
And stirs the calloused heart as well. 

And should his humble efforts provi 
A solace to one o'er-wroughl brain, 
Rekindling thoughts of home and love 
And pity where there was disdain . 
The poet has not lived in vain. 



All moods are thine, 0, Heavenly Muse, 
And blest is he who knows thy spell — 
Who's felt the lagging brain suffuse 
With noble thoughts that glow and swell 
The poet's songs we love so well, 

Thy home's where purple cloudlets float 

Like mirage ships in endless space; 

Where cherubim with tiny boat 

The Empyrean } s rivers trace, 

And Heaven's sunlight's in each face. 

r Lhou glidest past the humble home, 
And, lof some poor, ambitious boy 
Looks out upon the streets of Home 
Or sits by Homer in old Troy, 
And feels fresh-born the poet's joy. 

Then come, 0, Muse, to our new West - 
Float over valley, hill and plain, 
The land thy sister Ceres blessed; 
Inspire us as of old again, 
That we reap harvests else than grain. 



Illustrations. 



'' Frontispiece — Author's Portrait. 
/ Dedication. 

John Fulkerson, i 

y She Bears Another's Name, ... 28 
v You Don't Remember It, Eh? ... 80 
/Her Corsair Sire Had Reared Her 

Well, 99 

v A Great, Fixe Lady Drives This 

Way, 120 

J Jes Ez It Wuz When I Wuz Young, . 127 
/Imagine His Anguish if You Can, . 139 
* Old Midas is Leading the World 

To-day, 153 

v The Madam, Having Heard Them 

All, 161 

v L' Envoi, 189 

V Tail-piece, 191 



CONTENTS. 

John Fulkersox, i 

Woman, l 7 

Back to New Orleans, 21 

Eugene Field, 26 

The Shattered Ideal, 27 

The Old Log Cabin. 3° 

Bill Nye, . . • 3 6 

The Reign of Mammon, 37 

The Best They Can Do, 4 2 

The Street Singer, 44 

East and West, 46 

The Poet's Reward, 49 

Too Old To Be Moving Now, ... 52 

Captain Jim, 54 

Independence Day, 57 

Victoria, 59 



CONTENTS. 



Joseph B. McCullagh, 61 

The Old Farm, 62 

The Smith, 68 

Missouri Nightingales, 70 

The Millionaires' Ball, .... 72 

To Miss Ella Beers, ...... 75 

After the Storm, 76 

The Kings of Thought, 78 

Their First Meeting, 80 

The Old Editor, S4 

The Maid of the Salvation Army, . 85 

The Mississippi, . Sj 

The Poet, 88 

The Hero of Brush Creek, ... 92 

Compensation, 9S 

Corsair Island, . 99 

Who? 104 

Old Uncle Ike, 106 

The Irony of Fate, 108 

Voices, 109 

The Silent Vote, ....... 112 

The Modern Baron, . . . . . . 113 

Life, 1 16 

Old Bill, 117 

Ante-Nuptial, . 121 



CONTENTS. 



Fate, 122 

The Ancient Citizen, 124 

Same Old Way, 1 . 1 27 

The Press Club Buffet, 129 

Deacon Williams' Remarks, . . . 133 

What Is There In It? 137 

Hermit of Canebrake Point, . . . 138 

"Who'll Start 'Er?" 143 

A Reverie, 148 

Midas, 151 

The Fortv-Niner, 157 

Webster Groves, 163 

One Summer, . 168 

Orange Blossom, 171 

Log Cabin Boys, 177 

Spar Island Bar, 178 

The Vision, 180 

The Union Soldier, 182 

The Church at Sorby, ..... 184 

L'Envoi, !8 9 




" The craps air 'bout ez good, I 'low, 
Ez could be astfar." 



(See page 1.) 



LCOG <S)ABIN E?0EM3, 



JOHN FULKERSON. 

The craps air 'bout ez good, I 'low, 
Ez could be ast fur ; yit, somehow, 
It 'pears like we hain't gittin' 'long 
The way we orto — somethin's wrong ; 
An' times hain't what they ust to be, 
Fur bills air jes a-pesterin' me 
Thicker 'an bees in swarmin' time. 
It sometimes seems to me 'at I'm 
Not managin' the way I should ; 
An' yit, I've done the bes' I could, 
'Cept, mebbe, ginin in too much 
When 't come to furniture an' sech 
Aroun' the house. But mother 'lowed 
Ez other fa'mers hed it, how'd 
It look fur us, who come yer fus, 
An' own mos' Ian', to live the wus? 



JOHN FULKERSON, 



An' argied back in that air way 

Till, cou'se, /hed no mo' to say. 

A thousan' acres, 'bout ez good 

Ez lays out-doo's — prairie, wood. 

Water, well drained an' healthy, too. 

An' nigh to ma'ket — mighty few 

Mo' likely places kin be foun' 

In s'archin' the whole country 'roun'. 

Yit, we keep runnin' right in debt — 

An' mo' to worry 'bout an' fret — 

Wus 'n it wuz when we fus come 

Out yer lookin' fur a home, 

Me an' Merlindy an' the three 

Chil'en, pore ez poverty, 

An' settled down on Congress Ian', 

An' put up a log hut, an' planned 

How we'd git through the winter 'thout 

Everything a-runnin' out. 

Livin' on varmints we could ketch 

In traps, er kill — wiF game an' sech — 

An' co'n meal, grated frum the ear — 

Fur wheat bread wuzn't 'mong the cheer 

In these yer pa'ts 'long 'bout then; 

But appetites wuz 'roun', an' men 

Wuz hardy, an' the softer sex 



JOHN FULKERSON 



Wuzn't studyin' Greek an' w'arin' specs, 
Ez mos' the guyrls air doin' now. 
Er aimin' to do, anyhow, 
But spent thar time a-spinnin' ya'n 
An' l'arnin' fur to sew an' da'n. 
An' do the house-wo'k giner'ly. 
An' tu'n out to a huskin' bee, 
An' hunt fur red ears, so 'z to git 
Kissed — though fightin' shy of it — 
An' then go in an' dence, er play 
Blin' man's buff till break o' day, 
'Fo' pa'rin' off to leave fur home. 

Well, ef them good ol' times 'ould come 
Aroun' ag'in, it 'pears to me 
'At I'd be happier 'n I be 
With all o' these new-fangled traps 
We're usin' now to make the craps 
An' gether 'em — fa'min', they say, 
With implements. Well, anyway, 
It's mighty cos'ly — 'sides, the boys 
Air gittin' habits 'at annoys 
Me — plowin' all day in a pa'r 
C gloves, an' settin' in a cha'r 
Ez ef they wuz a-hevin' fun, 



JOHN FULKERSON. 



Mo' like, 'an gittin' the wo'k done. 
Then, chasm' in an' out o' town, 
An' 'roun' the ring at the fa'r-groun' 
On them air bicycles, like they 
Hed nothin' else to do but play. 
Arter a re-cord 's what they 'low — 
Well, it's excitin', anyhow; 
An' when, at that air tarneyment, 
They got the wo'd to go, an' went, 
An' our Dan sta'ted in the lead, 
An' kep' it, too, an' 't looked like he'd 
Come out ahead — it 'peared to me 
He wuz 'bout whar he or to be — 
An' the ol' woman 'lowed so, too, 
An' so did Cinthy Ann ; both grew 
Excited ez he neared the stan' — 
An' when the Jedge put up his han' 
Fur him to come an' git the belt, 
I dun't know when 'at I hev felt 
In better sperrits 'an right then, 
An' come nigh shoutin' out "AmenV 
But ketched myse'f in time to look 
Ez ef my morals hed bin shook 
Up purty badly at the sight — 
'At didn't 'pear to me jes right — 



JOHN FULKERSON. 



An', tu'nin' 'roun' ez ef to go, 

I heerd our Ephraim holler " Whoa I" 

An', lookin' up, diskivered he 

Hed jest driv up in front o' me ; 

His legs 'bout ha'f way up the shaf's, 

Each side the colt, an'both his ca'fs 

A-lappin' up agin its hide — 

I laughed until I almos' cried! 

He looked so comical — his cap 

A-restin' cl'ar down on the nap 

Of his neck, an' hidin' his eyes, 

An' lookin' so all-fired wise 

An' hossy-like — though a mere boy 

'At orto be his father's joy — 

An' mother's too — fresh ez he wuz 

Frum collidge — ginin us good cause 

To think he'd take his proper place 

In life, an' run a diff'rent race 

'An that — hevin' a higher aim, 

An' prove an honor to the name 

He b'ars — an' mebbe git to be 

A Jedge, er take the fa'm, when we 

Hev done with it — bein' older 'an 

Cinthy er his brother Dan — 

An' stiddy, too, we alus thought, 



lOHN FULKERSON, 



An' ap' to do 'bout what he ought, 

Which made him git through coJlidge jes 

A little sooner 'an the res', 

An' win the valerdictory, 

Ez papers said, an' a degree. 

But 't seemed to me he'd 1'arnt too much 

While off to school — new tricks an' sech 

We wouldn't like to hev him know 

Ef we could he'p it — much less show 

Off that way at the county fa'r, 

With all the neighbors gethered thar. 

So it made me feel a leetle 'shamed, 

An' mother blushed an' looked so blamed 

All cut-up-like, an' mortyfied, 

I said, a-drawin' her aside — 

u This eddication, seems to me, 

Ain't jes what it's cracked up to be. 

Ef that's what we've bin bankin' on, 

I 'low 'at all our money's gone 

An' mighty leetle come o' it — 

We'll fin' him kickin' foot-ball yit, 

Er gittin' up a rowin' race, 

Jes so 'z to capter the fus place." 

It wuzn't this way in my day ; 

An' mos' o' us hev made our way 



JOHN FULKERSON. 



An' hoi' our titles yit, although, 

I'm 'feared, we'll hev to let 'em go, 

Onless thar comes about a chenge 

An' morals take a higher renge ; 

An' young fo'ks pass thar time away 

At occupations 'at'll pay 

Better 'an so much sportin' does. 

Seems like they 'lowed 'at hosses wuz 

Jes made fur nothin' else but fun, 

An' l'arnin' fur to trot an' run, 

Instid o' doin' o' thar shar' 

O' drudgery, an' bu'dens b'ar— - 

Haulin' a load to town an' back. 

When mud's so stiff kin hear it crack 

Every time they lif ' a hoof ; 

An' tip-toein' more 'n enough 

In goin' up a hill, an' ac' 

Ez ef they re-cognized the fac' 

'At they wuz 'arnin' what they et, 

An' didn't win it on a bet. 

That's how things wuz when I wuz young. 

An', spite o' chenge, I've alus clung 

To the oP way o' doin' things. 

I fin' the medder-la'k still sings 

The same oP tune; the pecker clings 



JOHN FULKERSON. 



To the dead limb ; the summer flowers 
Ain't one bit sweeter now 'an ours 
'At bloomed about the cabin door 
When we wuz strugglhr 'long, afore 
We come to git these luxuries 
'At's pesterin' us like a disease. 

At fust, thar wuz the lightnin' rod — 
Ez ef we couldn't trus' the Lo'd 
To keer fur us the same ez He 
Did 'fore we knowed prosperity. 
But mother an' the chil'en 'lowed 
The worP hed changed, an' a new crowd 
Wuz runnin' of it — anyway, 
We'd foun' the cyclone hoi' to pay, 
An' wind an' lightnin' giner'ly 
Kep' one another company. 
" Seditious argyments," I said, 
ki To put into a youngster's head." 
But wimmin-fo'ks '11 hev thar way, 
I 'low, until the jedgment day. 
So, when the picter man come 'roun', 
An' looked about the walls an' foun' 
'Em bar', an' talked to Cinthy Ann 
'Bout homes upon the modern plan, 



JOHN FULKERSON. 



With chromos in, an' brick-er-brack. 

An' all them ornyments they stack 

'Renin' on the mantel-pieces, an' 

A organ, an' a upright gran' 

Pianer, an' a lib'ary, 

She jest went wild, an' 'lowed 'at she 

'Ould hev 'em, costin' what they might. 

I sometimes think the guyrl wuz right. 

She's pearter 'an her mother wuz 

'Long 'bout her age, an' it's all bec'use 

She's hed the chences an' kin play 

An' sing, an' jes talk by the day 

'Bout literature, an' parley voo 

With them air counts ez passes through 

Mizzoury ev'ry little while, 

A-settin' guyrls wil' with thar style 

An' boughten clo'se an' jewelry, 

An' manners frum acrost the sea — 

Finer 'an our'n, I hev no doubt, 

Yit can't jedge much frum what's without. 

So, I've bin tellin' o' her not 

To cas' on furrin sho's her lot, 

Onless she's sure thar's suthin' mo' 

An' jes' appearances in sto* 

Fur her to hang her hopes upon. 



JOHN FULKERSON 



An' clinsf to arter I am gone. 



&■ 



But I am gittirr cl'ar away 
Frum Ephraim an' the colt that day 
When we wuz at the county fa'r. 
Well, ez I said, he driv up thar, 
An' sta'ted on aroun' the ring 
'Long with the rest, a-practisin'— 
Er showin' off, is what I 'lowed, 
An' gittin' cheered by all the crowd — 
An' bet on, too, I hev no doubt — 
Ef I could jes hev got him out! 
A-mortyfyin' us to death ; 
Mother almos' los' her breath, 
An' Cinthy Ann a-settin' by 
A-snickerin', an' lookin' shy 
An' happy, too, ez she could be, 
In spite o' all our misery. 

"A nice pitch we air comin' to," 
Sez I to mother ; i4 mebbe you 
Hain't brought the guyrl up ez you should. 1 
Yit, I hed alus understood 
She hed; an', in fac', both o' us 
Wuz mo' 'an willln' fur to trus' 



JOHN FULKERSON. 



Her mos' implicitly. I 'lowed 

'At she wuz morally endowed 

Fur chu'ch wo'k an' the Sunday school, 

An' doin' ev'rything by rule, 

Even to keepin' company 

With that air lo'd. It 'peared to me 

She showed hard sense, mo' 'an enough 

In sendin' him off in a huff — 

A-tellin' him she couldn't see 

Why it wuz 'at the nobility 

Kep' comin' yer in s'arch o' wives, 

Whilst t'other sex stayed in thai* hives, 

Instid of alus browsin' 'roun' 

Fur honey on to furrin groun'. 

It mus' be 'at the ones 'at come 

A-courtin' here hain't much at home. 

So, when I heerd of it, I said, 

•'Our Cinthy Ann 's a level head." 

An' yit, I hed my doubts that day — 

She acted so outrageously, 

An' didn't seem to jestify 

Her trainin' — leastwise, in m)- eye — 

In gittin' we-uns all wo'ked up 

About that solid silver cup 

An' re-cord, which the thing confern 



12 JOHN FULKERSON. 

Upon the winner. Well, I'd hern 
Suthin' of sech things 'roun' the house 
Our Maltese cat hed killed a mouse 
Quicker 'an any other hed — 
Leastwise, that's what our Dan'l said. 
An' mo' of age an' size an' weight, 
An* p'ints too numerous to state 
'Bout critters an' thar pedigree—- 
All foolishness, it 'peared to me — 
Ez ef a hen can't lay an' set 
Ez hezn't bin brought up a pet, 
Er trace her lineage back to whar 
Or Adam kep' a hennery thar 
In Eden; er to 'low our houn's 
Hain't better'n them 'at's riz in towns, 
With all thar printed pedigree 
An' highferlutin' foolery, 
When 't comes to follerin' a trail, 
Er gittin' on it when it's stale, 
An' mo' reliable to send 
Fur what's hitched to t'other end. 

But young fo'ks take a diff'rent view 
Of mos' things 'an the ol'er do, 
An' re-cords strike 'em. Cinthy Ann 



JOHN FULKERSON. 13 

Hed won her'n on the upright gran' 

Pianer, an* Ephraim wuz out 

Now fur his sportin' one, no doubt; 

Fur, soon 'z the wo'd wuz gin to go, 

He shot ahead, an' stayed thar, so 

All-fired stiddy, 'thout a break, 

It looked ez ef he'd take the cake 

Ef he could jes keep that gait up, 

An' both the re-cord an' the cup 

Wuz his'n, shu'. Well, Cinthy Ann 

Wuz cheerin' Eph, an' so wuz Dan; 

An' when the critter, comin' down 

The home-stretch, on the las' time roun', 

With Eph a full len'th in the lead, 

It 'peared to me I'd never seed 

A purtier sight; an' mother 'lowed, 

A-standin' purty straight an' proud, 

She liked it, too, an' 'gin to wave 

Her bunnit, an' to shout an' rave 

Jest like she wuz a guyrl agin — 

All I could do to hoi' her in 

Till we got home. Well, I wuz 'bout 

Ez happy ez the rest, no doubt. 

So, arter supper-time, I sez, 

Speakin' to mother an' the res' — 



JOHN FULKERSON 



Some neighbors hevin' jest drapt in 

To stay an' spen' the evenin' — 

"S'posin' 'at we-uns hev a dence, 

An' gin us ol'er uns a chence 

To limber up a little ; 'low 

'At it wun't hu't us, anyhow. 

So Cinthy Ann took up her stan' 

A-facin' of the upright gran' 

Pianner, an' begun to play 

"Way Down South in Dixie — way — " 

When, gittin' pa'dners, we fell in, 

An' sech another frolickin' 

Thar hezn't bin aroun' these pa'ts 

Sence we wuz young an' los' our hea'ts 

A-lovin' one another — me 

An' the ol' woman, Merlindy ; 

An', by the time 'at we got through, 

I 'low we'd made a re-cord, too. 

So, say in' to the fambly, 
All gethered 'roun' in front of me — 
The neighbors hevin' said good-night, 
An' out o' hearin', too, an' sight — 
"I've alus done the bes' I could 
Fur you chil'en; an' it's fur your good 



JOHN FULKERSON. 15 

Ef 1 hev bin a little clos', 

An' made of ev'rything the mos', 

Well knowin' 'at the time 'ould come 

When all of you 'ould need a home, 

Bein brought up so diff'rently 

Frum what we wuz — mother an' me — 

Not knowin' what it is to wait 

An' take your single chence with fate. 

But hevin' us to lean upon 

An' keer fur you, of cou'se, ez none 

'Cept parents will. But I'm repaid 

Fur all I've ever done or said 

To he'p you 'long: an' mo' sence you 

Hev acted ez you orto do, 

An* made me alus feel so proud 

To be your father. Never bowed 

Our heads in sorrer, ez they say 

Of fo'ks whose chil'en go astray, 

An' ef we've strained ourse'ves to git 

You whar you air, I'm glad of it; 

Though, ez I said, the times air hard — 

Er, leastwise, not to be compar'd 

With what they wuz some years ago 

When we lived savin'er, you know. 

But now, 'at you're 'bout all through 



16 JOHN FULKERSON. 

Your schoolin', ef you'll jes be true 
To one another, I've no doubt 
But we'll be able to pay out, 
An' leave you the ol' homestead free 
Of debt, an' in prosperity." 



WOMAN. 

What inconsistencies are thine, 
What follies and frivolities ; 
What elements, indeed, combine 
To fashion forth a thing like this 
Is far beyond all mortal ken, 
And has been since the very first — 
Of all the problems given men, 
Ah, madam, you're the very worst 



Thou earnest with the primal dawn 
That crept upon the pulseless sea, 
And camped with man upon the lawn 
Ere Chaldean shepherds came to be. 
Behind the pyramids wert thou — 
Co-eval with the singing stars 
Man knew thee as he knows thee now 
A prison without prison bars. 



i8 WOMAN. 



Thou sittest, and we gather round : 
Thou risest, and we're of thy train ; 
Where'er thou goest man is found, 
And ever with thee shall remain. 
Like children we are blindly led, 
Like children, too, we're much denied : 
At times we get the buttered bread, 
Again it's dry on either side. 

Yet not alone as mother, wife, 
You prove a solace, woman fair ; 
You've brought fresh zest to office life 
By warming the typewriter's chair. 
No more the tedious moments drag 
With snail-like pace till time to close, 
But fly the special express flag 
While we dictate whole reams of prose. 

In other walks of life, as well — 
And, let me say, in other rides, 
As, 'sooth, the bicycle may tell 
That thy blithe form in turn bestrides — 
In all the busy marts of trade — ■ 
Behind the counter- — thou art there. 
For all it's worth thy beauty's played, 
And men who lose to thee don't swear. 



WOMAN. 19 



You'll fit a number seven glove 

Upon a brawny thirteen hand, 

And hypnotize us while we move 

In desperation from your stand. 

A giant quails before thy frown : 

A pigmy to a giant leaps, 

When, smilingly, thine eyes look down 

And bid him climb life's rugged steeps. 

How much, indeed, I owe to thee 
I make no secret to declare. 
And one has borne most patiently 
Far more than her allotted share. 
I know full well thy tender touch ; 
I know the flame that's in thine eyes, 
And that there is none other such 
An inspiration 'neath the skies. 

At Austerlitz, the foe in flight, 
Napoleon hastens from the scene ; 
And couriers throughout the night 
Bear messages to Josephine. 
And Nelson, too, at Trafalgar, 
With his last breath — the battle won — 
Lo, whispers in his dying prayer 
The name of Lady Hamilton. 



WOMAN. 



And to that sea-girt isle where sits 
The Queen of Queens upon her throne. 
And wields the scepter as befits 
The grandest empire ever known. 
Man turns to-day with longing eye 
(Alike in honor or in shame), 
As he goes forth to fight and die, 
That she may only lisp his name. 



BACK TO NEW ORLEANS. 

I've been lushin' of your beer till I'm nothin' 

but a bloat, 
An' my hammock an' my duds are up the 

spout; 
An' the winter's comin' on, an' I've neither 

shoes nor coat, 
So I guess it's time 'at I was lightin' out — 
Back to New Orleans, 
Back to New Orleans, 
Wher' a man ez hez a record hoi's a berth. 
I'm a-longin' fur the levee an' the ol' familiar 

scenes — 
It's the only place fur roustabouts on earth. 

I've been scootin' through your cornfields an' 
a-loafin' round your towns, 



BACK TO NEW ORLEANS. 



An' hev seen your glorious country called the 

West, 
With it's prehistoric relics 'at you're diggiiT 

frum the mounds, 
But Louisiana's suitin' me the best. 
Back to New Orleans, 
Back to New Orleans, 
Wrier' the aromatics cheer you day an 5 night. 
An' the mint is held to be the chief of semi- 
tropic greens, 
Since it " moveth itself in the glass aright." 

I've stood your long " dog-watches," an' I've 

taken in your " bluff," 
An' you've sacked me an' you've sparred me 

till I'm sick : 
An' ez fur sandbar boatin', Sandy Smith hez 

hed enough, 
So just pay me, fur I want to git ther' quick. 
Back to New Orleans, 
Back to New Orleans, 
Wher' the oranges an' ripe bananas grow 
Ef you've ever hed a taste of it, you know 

just what it means; 
Ef you hevn't, then, of course, you'll never 

know. 



BACK TO NEW ORLEANS. 23 



I'm a-longin' fur the land wher' skids an* cot- 
ton bales are free 

Fur a man 'at's broke an' doesn't hev a bed ; 

Wher' the summer nights are alus cooled by- 
breezes frum the sea, 

An' in winter time you scarcely need a spread. 
Back to New Orleans, 
Back to New Orleans, 

Wher' the ships are alus passin' in an' out; 

An' you sit an' watch the flags until your in- 
clination leans 

To'rds the ocean that the sailors talk about. 

I'm a-starvin' fur the cookin', an' I want to 

see the sights — 
I'd be at the old French Market once again. 
An' taste the " caff a voo-la" an' the pastry 

that invites — 
O, to think of it just gives the stomach pain ! 
Back to New Orleans, 
Back to New Orleans, 
Wher' the dagos an' the Creoles are so thick, 
An' you listen to 'em talk, though you don't 

know what it means — 
O. I'm going to Louisiana quick ! 



24 BACK TO NEW ORLEANS. 

Why, I seem to see the sea-guls now, a-flyin' 
overhead, 

An' Aunt Phillis, good ol' Bayou Goula moke, 

With her table on the levee, an' she'll set me 
out a spread, 

An' she'll never speak of money when I'm 
broke. 

Back to New Orleans, 
Back to New Orleans, 

O, I wish that I hed wings, that I could fly 

Wher' you pick out them 'at's Southern by 
the'r attacapas jeans. 

An' the snow-birds, when you see 'em, north- 
ward fly. 

Hevn't hed a single mess of jambolayo since 

I left. 
An' dry rice an' gumbo never git to see ; 
An' the duff is only duff when you judge it 

by the heft, 
Fur it seems 'at it an' reasons don't agree. 
Back to New Orleans, 
Back to New Orleans, 
Wher' ther's alus plenty "soft-tack" in the 

pan, 
An' the cook knows 'at a roustabout can't live 

alone on beans, 
An' he sees 'at he is treated like a man. 



BACK TO NEW ORLEANS. 



So I'll pack my duds an' hurry up while I've 

the stuff to clear, 
Fur this life away frum friends is but a drag ; 
An' of course I couldn't think of dyin' an' be 

buried here, 
Fur they'd never think of lowerin' the flag. 
Back to New Orleans, 
Back to New Orleans, 
Wher' a man's not called a tramp because he's 

broke. 
But is guaranteed his liberty in all 'at that 

term means, 
Ariel's not freezin' when his overcoat's in soak. 



EUGENE FIELD. 

O, would, indeed, that we could have him 

back 
To cheer our hearts if only for a day! 
But no; the angels bore dear Field away, 
And, while they smile, our skies are hung in 

black. 
Alas! will Heaven never cease to sack 
Our earth of spirits that we would have stay, 
And leave us but the uninspired clay, 
And constant dread of a renewed attack ? 
Why should it always envy us our best? 
The few immortal souls that live apart, 
Who, all undaunted, pass the crucial test, 
And stand for all we know and love in art! 
Perhaps it is because they need the rest, 
And seek it, leaving us to bear the smart. 



THE SHATTERED IDEAL. 

Oh, she was most divinely fair. 
And passsion seemed to well 
From depths at once so rich and rare. 
She held him as a spell. 
And when he gazed into her eyes 
And caught reflected summer skies. 
And all the promise therein lies, 
He felt, indeed, to love were wise. 

Her mobile lips, flushed as the ro.se. 

And teeth of mountain snow ; 

And cheeks whereon the orange glows, 

And voice so soft and low. 

He saw all else receding ; felt 

All passion into nothing melt 

In which he?' image had not dwelt, 

And as a slave beside her knelt. 



28 THE SHATTERED IDEAL. 

He never dreamed it was a part 

She played so passing well, 

Nor saw he through her subtile art — 

He only felt the spell. 

Alas ! that words may so conceal — 

How meaningless each sweet appeal — 

That all was seeming, nothing real, 

That as he felt she could not feel. 

And when the moment came to part, 
When he went forth alone, 
An inward flame illumed his heart 
For there her image shone : 
As true in outline to his sight, 
And perfect in each feature, quite, 
As though from Parian marble white, 
Some hand had wrought an angel bright. 

They met again ; alas ! he sought 

Forgetfulness in toil, 

To mingle with the kings of thought 

And burn the midnight oil. 

And wealth and power and honor came 

To him — she bears another's name, — 

And life to him is poor and tame. 

Ah! more's the pity; more's the shame! 





" She bears another's name" 



(See page 28.) 



THE SHATTERED IDEAL. 29 

And yet her picture still remains 

All perfect in his heart. 

And, oh! the lonely hours, the pains; 

And, oh! the poignant smart! 

And what is wealth and honor's seal, 

And laureled brow and fame's appeal 

To him who holds a dead ideal, 

And nurses wounds that will not heal ? 



THE OLD LOG CABIN. 

The ol' log cabin's lef alone, deserted now 

an' still ; 
Nobody 'pears to care fur it, an' reckon never 

will ; 
An' so I keep it fur myse'f, same way it wuz 

when we 
Moved over into our brand new house, like 

fine sassiety. 
An' here I come an' set an' think about the 

days 'at's past 
Till ol'-time frien's jes seem to take thar 

seats agin, an' ast 
About the news ; an' then Melindy, she jes 

comes in, too. 
An' all the chil'en romp an' talk the way they 

ust to do. 



THE OLD LOG CABIN. 31 

An', all at oncet, the fire 'at's bin put out this 

twenty year 
Sta'ts up agin, an' other things begin to re- 
appear — 
The dog-ir'ns. an' the crane an' hooks, an' 

skillet an' co'n-pone 
A-bakin' on the boa'd the way it did in days 

'at's gone ; 
An', purty soon, thar comes a knock upon the 

ha'f-closed door, 
An' Uncle Abe, with saddle-bags, is here 

agin fur shore — 
The same tall fo'm, the hones' face, an' voice 

'at ust to say: — 
" Jes drapt in, Jim, to git a snack an' pass 

the time o' day." 

An' then he looks aroun' an' sees the ladder 

standin' thar — 
The same one 'at we ust to use because we 

hed no sta'r ; 
Then over in the corner, whar we kep' the 

cider jug — 
An', purty soon, I seem to hear that same ol' 

An' then we both set down an' talk 'bout 
politics an' craps 



32 THE OLD LOG CABIN. 



In Sangamon, an' cou'ts whar fo'ks still law 

an' hev the'r scraps ; 
An', presently, Melindy comes an' says to us, 

us, says she, 
" Dinner's ready," an', o' cou'se, 'at suits ol' 

Abe an' me. 

Here in the middle o' the room the table ust 

to stan' — 
Remember, jes' ez plain ez day, how 'twuz 

we ust to plan — 
Melindy an' ol' Abe an' me come fust — the 

chil'en last; 
An', talk o' Parnin' ! orto hear the blessin' he 

could ast! 
An' then to see the way be et! Melindy ust 

to say 
She alus liked to cook fur fo'ks 't enjoyed it 

that a-way. 
He'd he'p hisse'f to chicken pie, an' mashed 

potaters, too, 
An' pass his cup up offen, ez ol'-timers ust 

to do. 

Well, we wuz makin' hist'ry in them ol' days, 

I 'low, 
Although we didn't know it then the way we 

know it now. 



THE OLD LOG CABIN. 33 

Who'd ever think 'at Nancy Hanks 'ould be 

so talked about, 
An' Sangamon 'ould hev the fines' monument 

'at's out? 
Jes does me good to steddy 'bout the times 

'at's passed away, 
When fo'ks done things because they should, 

an' not jes fur the pay ; 
When neighbors ust to all tu'n out to he'p us 

cut our wheat, 
An' gals wuz kissed, not grumbled at, when 

things run sho't to eat. 

Now ev'rything's so citified — so awful fine 
an' nice ; 

Spring water ain't half cool enough — they 
hev to hev thar ice! 

An' place o' young fo'ks gittin' up 'fore day- 
light ez they did 

When I wuz young, we call 'em now 'bout 
breakfas'-time instid. 

The birds don't seem to sing no mo' the way 
they ust to do — 

I reckon they've foun' out thar tunes air out 
o' fashion, too. 



34 THE OLD LOG CABIN. 

Them operys an' sonaters 'at's jes the same ez 

Greek 
To fo'ks ez likes plain music™ a-ham'rin' at 

us all the week. 

An', then, fo'ks ain't ez neighborly ez what 

they ust to be — 
Dun't ever come to borrer things when they 

hev company, 
But hitch right up an' drive to town an' lay 

in a new bill, 
An' never think o' swappin' meat when time 

comes roun' to kill. 
An' huskin's, too, an' parin' bees, an' spellin' 

schools no more 
Air heard of like they ust to be when we wuz 

young an' pore ; 
Nor " blin' man's buff," nor " heavy, heavy 

hangs over your head," 
An' " hoi' fas' all I give to you," an' nothin's 

here instead. 

Same way, too, with the riddle, an' the good 

ol' country dence — 
No use fur us to know a step — we never git 

a chence 



THE OLD LOG CABIN. 35 



To show it — nothin' but the waltz an' schot- 
tische an' thar like. 

An' that pianner music's heard from Sanga- 
mon to Pike. 

O' cou'se I know the worP hez changed, an' 
we're a-growin' ol', 

Belongin' to an age 'at's past — our story hez 
bin tol'. 

But while /live an' hoi' the deeds to this here 
bottom Ian', 

A double section, too, at that, this hut hez got 
to stan'. 



BILL NYE. 

Ah! genial humorist, who held the glass 

To thine own follies, that the world might see, 

Reflected there, its own unuttered plea 

In heart attuned to sympathy; alas! 

That Death, the ruthless reaper, should not 

pass, 
Nor bid us in our anguish turn, that we 
Might hide the bitter tears that flowed for thee 
When, with too ruthless scythe, he like the 

grass 
Did lay thee low. The one most free from 

guile, 
Who sought to palliate the pangs we feel 
By fronting all misfortune with a smile ; 
The same kind, genial soul, come woe or weal, 
Who voiced thine own shortcomings all the 

while, 
And gave to fiction heart-throbs genuine, reaL 



THE REIGN OF MAMMON. 

A young poet whose mission in life seemed 

to be 
To adjust all the race to a standard which he 
Had arranged in his mind as the one proper 

thing — 
The true ethical code, which, if practiced, 

would bring 
The millenium about (if it is to be brought), 
And reward every man for his labor and 

thought, 
Went out for a walk, and meandered around 
Till he came to a place where fine mansions 

abound. 

It was no thoroughfare, yet the poet went in — 
He was seeking a subject, and here he'd begin, 
For the scene was sufficient to fan to a flame 
His stirred indignation, which never was too 
tame. 



38 THE REIGN OF MAMMON. 

And he said to the uniformed guard at the 

gate 
(Sarcasm, to be sure, was intended), "The 

great 
And the cultured of all the fair city live here." 
And the other smiled back with a quizzical 

leer. 

Then he paused and conversed with the man 

till he'd learned 
How these fortunes had all been acquired, and 

he yearned 
To expose them in print, as a crying disgrace, 
That such upstarts should slap all the town in 

the face 
By the flaunting of wealth; worse, their ill- 
gotten gains — 
The o'er-greedy, who have but one thought in 

their brains. 
And they talked as they loitered along side by 

side, 
In low tones, to be sure, of the world and its 

pride. 

"Now, that man," said the guard, "in that 

house on the right 
Came up out of obscurity all in a night. 



THE REIGN OF MAMMON. 39 

He had toiled with the rest, to his honor 'twas 

said — 
He shared with them, too, all his surplus of 

bread, 
Till the spirit of mammon came into his brain 
And the Christ-life in common seemed barren 

and vain ; 
So he schemed with the rich till he got up a 

trust, 
And now lives as you see, while they live as 

they must. 

"And the one on the left, even still more 

obscure 
('Twould be well could we say that he only 

was poor), 
All unlettered, untrained, of low blood, and 

what's worse, 
Sees he nothing in life but the plethoric purse. 
All the waste and the wear of the nerves, and 

the cry 
Of despair that goes up to the Throne that's 

on high 
Of his victims come not to his isolate ear, 
For they're not of the class that's permitted 

in here. 



40 THE REIGN OF MAMMON. 

"And his neighbor next door, who now lives 

like a king, 
(And why not, since he, too, 's at the head of 

a ring?) 
Run a traffic which, by his own skill, he in- 
creased 
To enough, yet he, too, got his mind on a 

feast. 
And he worked up a trust in a line, and he 

planned 
Till the price keeps not pace with supply and 

demand ; 
And defying the law and ignoring the right, 
He now boasts of his power and is proud of 

his might. 

" Now, beyond there, you see, is a house hard 

to beat — 
He's a "cinch" on a product that all of us eat; 
And the one just across, which is equally fine, 
Is the home of the boss of another combine ; 
And adjoining him lives yet another, 'tis said, 
Who is happy because competition is dead ; 
And the mansion beyond, with the frigid-like 

frown, 
Holds the merchant who closed all the small 

shops in town." 



THE REIGN OF MAMMON. 



4* 



And they viewed every house till they came to 
the last — 

A great structure, which all of the others sur- 
passed. 

There were statues and arbors and fountains 
and flowers, 

And walks that led into remote shady bowers. 

And the poet in ecstasy drank in the scene, 

And observed, " Some great mining king lives 
here, I ween ; 

Or perhaps 'tis the broker who cornered the 
wheat 

Gives this ocular proof he's again on his feet." 

"No; the author lives there who lampooned 

them so long 
In his novels, and also railed at them in song, 
Till he brought out a work that became much 

in quest, 
And grew rich, and now he is in here with the 

rest." 
"And so this is the man who would live on a 

crust 
For the sake of his art!* 9 said the bard, in 

disgust. 
" Why, he wrote not a line but to deprecate 

wealth-— 
Well, it seems even he wasn't out for his 

health!" 



THE BEST THEY CAN DO. 

A man's a man, although his lot 

Be cast among the poor, 
If honor prompts each deed and thought, 

No matter how obscure. 
So when you meet another 

Less fortunate, I say, 
Salute him as a brother, 

And 'bove all else, I pray 
Don't be hypercritical — 

I would not were I you ; 
Have charity — remember 

It's the best that he can do. 

Be thankful if your lot be cast 

Upon a higher plane — 
That Fortune, smiling as she passed. 
Drew thee within her train. 



THE BEST THEY CAN DO. 43 

And when disposed to cast you eyes 

Upon the world around, 
Where others strive to win the prize 

Which you've already found, 
Don't be hypercritical — 

I would not were I you ; 
Have charity — remember 

It's the best that they can do. 



THE STREET SINGER. 

Child of the sunny land, sing me a song; 
Pour out your plaintive notes loudly and long; 
Sing of the sunny skies over the sea ; 
If they'll not hear you, child, sing it to me. 



What unpropitious winds wafted you here ? 
For that you're alien, child, it is clear. 
Be not deceived by the palaces grand — 
Mammon accords you no place in the land. 



Sing of the " market,'* to these and the like, 
How they may profit by strife and by strike. 
Chant you the praise of the ring and the trust, 
But say not a word of toiler's hard crust. 



THE STREET SINGER. 45 

Then, as you take the seductive coin in, 
Know in your heart you've committed a sin ; 
Though gold is your guerdon, the Muses have 

flown 
Back to their haunts, all to Midas unknown. 



Child of the sunny land, sing the old song; 
Pour out your plaintive notes loudly and long ; 
Sing of the sunny skies over the sea ; 
If they'll not hear you, child, sing it to me. 



EAST AND WEST. 

A poet out West, with afflatus possessed, 

Sent screeds to a magazine 
Till the editor wrote, " O, give us a rest 

And a breathing spell between!" 
And he fired 'em back in a U. S. M. sack, 
Cantos, sonnets and ballads, all at one whack. 
Ta la, lal, lal, da lack. 

And, moreover, he wrote (his language I 
quote) — 
This N. Y. editor man: — 
u On a Wild West MS. we're not prone to 
dote," 
And further the missive ran — 
" Though your country is fine, you'd better 

confine 
Your efforts to produce — it's more in your 
liner 1 

Toodle de do de dine, 



EAST AND WEST. 47 

But the poet had nerve, I'd have you observe, 
And, equally strange, he'd cash; 

And a ranch and a mine on a frontier reserve, 
And wasn't writing for hash, 

But was out for a name and a poet's fame, 

And camping red-hot on the trail of the same. 
Tra la, lal, lal, da lame. 

So he took his MS. and hired an express, 

And the run that "special" made, 
A mile every minute (it wasn't much less), 

For the engineer was paid, 
And he wanted the swag, and trains do not lag 
That are out for time with the right-of-way 
flag. 

Fal da, ral, ral, da rag. 

On reaching N. Y. he proceeded to hie 

Forthwith to the magazine. 
(There was wrath in his face and blood in his 
eye — 
O, he was loaded with spleen!) 
And he bought out the affair right then and 

there, 
And five minutes later was warming the chair. 
Fal da, ral, ral, da dair. 



48 EAST AND WEST. 



And ever since then you may follow his pen, 
For all that he writes goes in. 

And the old editor he keeps in his den, 
And he works him, too, like sin. 

But he doesn't whack any more MS. back 

On that Wild West poet— I'm stating a fac' 
Fa la, lal, lal, da lack. 



THE POET'S REWARD. 

A poet sat in his attic den, 

Remote from the noisy street, 
And plied with vigor his fertile pen 

Till a poem was all complete, 
Then mused as he scanned the fledgling o'er, 

U I reckon that's hard to beat." 

He was a " sui generis" cuss, 

As most of these poets are, 
With flowing locks and a meager pu's', 

But of hope he had, and to spare ; 
And the future seemed to hold for him 

A monument tall somewhere. 

His clothes were not of the latest brew — 

Including his shoes and hat — 
But his mind was fresh as morning dew — 
4 



50 THE POET'S REWARD. 

Say a morning in June at that — 
And shone with a luster like his suit. 
Well, 'tween 'em 'twas tit for tat. 

So, folding the poem up, he sent 

It off to a magazine, 
Then sat with a look of sweet content, 

And a soul even more serene, 
And thought how his name would look in 
print, 

Where it never yet had been. 

And then, to increase his meager store, 
He turned with a purpose strong; 

For he felt the editor' d crave for more, 
And would crave for them right along ; 

And he didn't desire to make him wait 
While he rounded up a song. 



So he humped himself both night and day 

For a month or, maybe, two, 
And, holding his " output," as they say, 

Till it grew and it grew and grew ; 
But never an answer yet had he 

To that missive long overdue. 



THE POET'S REWARD. 51 

He'd read of the average poet's fate, 

And how hard it is to carve 
A name that will live among the great, 

But felt that he must not swerve 
From the course that he'd marked out, but 
make 

His own the champion starve. 

So years went by, and the poet wrought 

As only a poet will — 
And the dream of fame, his only thought, 

Waxed stronger and stronger still ; 
But his hair grew thin and white — his step 

Was the step that goes down hill. 

Till at last one day a letter came 

From that famous magazine ; 
The editor wrote and signed the same — 

Though an old man now, I ween — 
And said, " Your poem will surely appear 

In the year nineteen-nineteen." 

The poet clung to the missive tight, 

As if it might be his bride, 
Who'd led him a tedious up-hill fight, 

But at last was at his side. 
But his joy was so supremely great 

That he sank to the floor and died, 



TOO OLD TO BE MOVING NOW. 

Give me a lodge in the forest somewhere, 

Away from the noise of the town ; 
And bring me my books and my easy chair, 

For it's time I were settling down. 
I've toiled, yet, alas! my castles in Spain 

Have all vanished away, somehow ; 
I'm three-score and past — I say it with pain ; 

I'm too old to be moving now. 

Too old to be moving now — 
I'm three-score and' past — I say it with pain! 

I'm too old to be moving now. 



O, how I long, indeed, for the perfect rest 

And quietude of the groves, 
Where the shattered oak by the vine's caressed, 

And lhe peace that the poet loves, 



TOO OLD TO BE MOVING NOW. 53 

And the whisperings, that he knows so well, 

Of the grasses and shady bough — 
Midst fair scenes like these how I'd love to 
dwell ; 
I'm too old to be moving now. 

Too old to be moving now — 
I'm three-score and past — Ah! sad this to tell! 
I'm too old to be moving now. 

So I'll seek me out some cozy retreat 

Where I'll spend my remaining days, 
Away from the busy scenes of the street 

And the pace that too early slays. 
And I'll sing till the world shall hear my song, 

And the laurel shall deck my brow, 
For I'll toil for the good and smite the wrong; 

I'm too old to be moving now. 

Too old to be moving now — 
I'm three-score and past — O, the years are 
long! 

I'm too old to be moving now. 



CAPTAIN JIM. 

Bowed and old and wrinkled and gray, 

He sits on the levee alone, 
Thinking of days long passed away, 

When he owned a line of his own. 
But now his name no more appears 

As the popular " Captain Jim," 
And old-time files and buried years 

Are not coming to visit him. 

He might have quit, as others did, 

Ere his castles came tumbling down. 
And kith and kin he loves were hid 

In the tenements of the town ; 
But faith was strong, and so he staid 

And fought competition alone, 
Till railroads took away his trade 

And the fruits of his toil had flown. 



CAPTAIN JIM. 55 



And yet, beneath the shaggy brow 

You will meet with the eagle eye ; 
And yon need not be told, I trow, 

That it never was known to cry — 
Not even when his old wife died 

And they laid her away to reste 
The strong turn all their tears inside, 

And their grief is never expressed. 

Talk of your heroes — he's saved more 

Men and women than you could name- 
Cabin or deck, both rich and poor, — 

For he always was dead game. 
And when he saw a hat or shawl 

In the river, he'd just dive in — 
Didn't wait to lower the yawl, 

But took even chances to win. 

Sometimes the world would hear of it, 

And papers would give him a puff; 
But he didn't seem to care a bit, 

And he never would read the stuff, 
But used to say that he couldn't see 

How a man could do otherwise 
Than help one out who chanced to be 

Going under before his eyes. 



56 CAPTAIN JIM. 



And yet what arm would lift him now 

From the eddy in which he's caught. 
Or throw a line or show him how 

To prosper, or give him a thought? 
Not one, it seems. He's had his day, 

And belongs to an age that's past; 
And now must sink or make his way 

All alone to the shore at last. 



INDEPENDENCE DAY. 

Bring forth the pyrotechnics, let the deep- 
mouthed cannon speak, 

The eagle rouse and lift his wings and soar 
from sun-lit peak; 

The banners wave, the kettle-drums ring out, 
the brass bands play, 

While all join hands and celebrate our Inde- 
pendence Day. 



All men are equal in our land, no titled rank 
have we ; 

We bow to no superior — to none we bend 
the knee ; 

Each one a part of one great whole, to har- 
mony designed 

And relegated like the spheres, to orbits well 
defined. 



58 INDEPENDENCE DAY. 

Our mission is the conquest of the passions, 

not of lands ; 
To cultivate the conscience and restrain up= 

lifted hands; 
To teach the world that honor is God's greatest 

gift, not gold, 
And hoarded wealth and idleness breed evils 

unf ore told. 



This is the day we celebrate, and this the end 

we seek: 
To hold rapacity in check and stimulate the 

weak, 
Till in good time, as one fair field of ripening 

grain, we show 
Where every struggling stem has had an equal 

chance to grow. 



VICTORIA. 

Strange how we take a liking to some folks of 
whom we read, 

Yet that such is the case we're all quite gener- 
ally agreed. 

No matter what their station is in life, though 
high or low, 

They're apt to get a hold on us that somehow 
won't let go. 

Now there's Victoria, whom it has not been 

my lot to see, 
And yet it seems she's ever been a dear, good 

friend to me — 
Not that I'm wearing any badge or rank that 

she conferred, 
But there are other reasons why my feelings 

have been stirred. 



6o VICTORIA. 



And chief of these, I must confess, is that 

she's been so true 
To her one love ; it makes us wish that we 

could be so, too. 
Her constancy has taught the world a lesson to 

its shame; 
And all that's true and good in life shall 

cling about her name. 



JOSEPH B. McCULLAGH. 

t; Tell us, O, Muse, we pray, what subtle 

power 
Gave temper to the wizzard's pen? ,, "The 

stress 
Of all he wrought was truth Ah ! nothing 

less 
Than this bequeathed he as a dower 
Unto his country. Lo ! in the darkest hour 
He bade the valiant ever onward press, 
And lit afresh the waning lamps that bless 
A groping world. He saw the dark clouds 

lower, 
Nor faltered. Undismayed he strove, 
And undismayed, as well, he died. 
Undaunted to the very last, he clove, 
Till Error, vanquished, drew in shame aside, 
And in its stead came hope and peace and love- 
That bless our country now on every side." 



THE OLD FARM. 

The weather wuz so hot in town, sez I to 

mother, " How 
'Twould do fur us to visit the ol' farm agi'n? 

I 'low 
It's cooler out thar in the shade, a-specially 

'long the crick." 
" We'll go," sez she, "ef you think bes'," 

an' so I hitched up quick. 

We take the hill road so 'at we can cross the 

upper bridge — 
The valley stretchin' to the right, an' on the 

left the ridge — 
The Tenney place is jes ahead, an' Fay's still 

f urder on — 
An' we're a-thinkin' mo' 'an talkin' of the 

days 'at's gone. 



THE OLD FARM. 63 

Thar's bin some changes made of late, an* 

both of us agree 
They hinder us frum pickin' out jes how things 

ust to be ; 
But purty soon, a-sure enough, the Gates farm 

comes in view, 
An' then, of course, our eyes let go of ev'ry- 

thing 'at's new. 

The same ol' house, the well 'long-side, 

a-standin' on the wes' ; 
The bucket, too, 'at rises full of water 'at's 

the bes'. 
We stop, but thar's no one at home, at leas' it 

so appears, 
An' 'sides the flies air bad, an' Snip's oneasy 

in his gears, 

So we push on an' cross the bridge an' climb 

the Hildreth hill, 
But, seein' 'at the house is shut an' everything 

is still, 
I give the hoss the reins an' 'low we'll stop ez 

we come back — 
An' soon we strike the "run" an' take the 

road along its track 



64 THE OLD FARM. 

A mile or two. We know, of course, some 

fo'ks 'at live along 
It's sides; an' seems we know the birds— I'm 

sure we know their song. 
An', hevin' lef all this behin', we climb 

another rise 
Of groun', an' the ol' farm's a=standin' right 

afore our eyes. 

Ma wants to drive right over, but I sez, 
" We'll look aroun' 

An' res' a spell here in the shade." I kind o' 
like the soun'- — 

The peckers tappin' the dead trees, the pheas- 
ants drummin', too, 

Jes like they did when we wuz young an' 
ev'ry thing wuz new. 

We pull up now a little an' come to the ol' 

school-house, 
But ez it is " vacation time," it's still ez any 

mouse ; 
An' so air we fur quite a while, an' then agin 

drive on,— 
An', lookin* in each other's face, we see the 

years 'at's gone, 







&i 






THE OLD FARM. 65 

The view is chengecl frtmi what it wuz ; they've 

cut away the trees ; 
An' so the ol' ten-acre fiel' 's a twenty, now, 

with ease ; 
An' where we ust to gether berries till we hed 

our fill 
They've cl'ared the timber off an' grubbed 

clean down to Rose's mill. 

The sugar-camp is standin' yit, but ez the 

season's past, 
The troughs air dry an' fallin' leaves air rlllin' 

of 'em fast; 
An' silence reigns, an' the ol' hawk is floatin' 

in the sky, 
A-guardin' it same ez he did in the long years 

gone by. 

The crick, we fin', is jes the same — ez cool 

an' shady, too — 
The trees a-j'inin' overhead the way they ust 

to do. 
So we drive in to swell the tires an' give ol' 

Snip a drink, 

An', hevin' nothin' else to do, we set an' talk 

an' think, 

5 



THE OLD FARM. 



An' look up through the timber where we see 

the shinin' dam, 
An' hear the water roarin', an' then jes above 

the ca'm 
Pon' where willers grow so thick, the path an' 

oF canoe 
'At we liked all the better 'cause 'twuz on'y 

built fur two. 

The spring, of course, we visit, where we ust 

to offen set 
An' watch the sun go down because we feel 

we owed a debt 
'At we mils' pay; an' then at las' we come to 

the ol' home, 
An' knock an' wait, an' purty soon the stran- 

ges' faces come 

An' ast us in, but all at onct, rememberin' 

other years, 
Our voices choke, an' then our eyes air filled 

with blindin* tears. 
An' so we tu'n an' drive away, a-thinkin' of 

the pas', 
An' the ol' graveyard by the chu'ch an' here 

we air at las'. 



THE OLD FARM. 67 

We stop an' spen' an' hour or so, 'mong 

frien's an' kindred dead, 
Some of 'em hev stuns 'bove thar graves, an' 

some jes flowers instead ; 
An' others 'at air never made, with jes a plain 

earth moun', 
Remindin' us how ourn'n '11 look. Then we 

drive back to town. 



THE SMITH. 

Once a worker in iron stood at his anvil and 
wrought, 

Proud to think that his labor brought the re- 
ward that he sought; 

Singing, with no thought of sorrow, lo! he 
hammered away, 

Till the king and his courtiers paused at the 
smithy one day. 

Marked he the man and metal, brought from 

the furnace aglow; 
Watched he the sparks that scattered, saw he 

it yield to the blow, 
Then said he to his courtiers, "Note you the 

smith, and then learn ; 
Mind shall rule over matter, bring it to service 

in turn. 



THE SMITH. 69 



" Both are the same in nature, hammer and 

slug are but one, 
And yet one serves the other, obeying, though 

all undone. 
Take you then heed in the future, be on the 

battle field — 
Like to the blacksmith's hammer, compelling 

all else to yield.' ' 

Then they went forth to conquer; the king 

and his valiant crew 
Stood like a wall, undaunted, like their bright 

blades tempered, too — 
Smote as the smith had smitten, every blow 

made to tell, 
Driving the foe before them. Then said the 

king, "It is well." 

This is the lesson the smith taught to the 

world with his blow: — 
"Lo! mind shall rule all matter; man shall 

continue to grow ; 
All nature's forces shall serve him — serve him 

and not ask w T hy — ■ 
Until he gain his birthright, lord of all under 

the sky." 



MISSOURI NIGHTINGALES. 

When the melancholy gloaming hath stolen 

to the glen, 
And the poet's thoughts are coming unbidden 

to his pen, 
Lo ! a strident sound ascendeth from out the 

sedgy bog, 
And the flecking moonlight blendeth with the 
croaking of the frog — 

Calling, bawling; 
Rising, falling. 
Oh, you noisy crew ! 
What in the world is amiss with you? 



Wherefore these nocturnal chatters, sojourners 

in the earth? 
Is the way men manage matters provocative of 

mirth ? 



MISSOURI NIGHTINGALES. 7 1 

Do the poet's constant labors upon his idle 

rhymes 
Stir thy risibles, O, neighbors of the bucolic 
chimes? 

Croaking, poking ; 
Joking, shocking. 
Say ! I must request 
That you do skedaddle and give us a rest. 

Seek, oh, seek thy hole, and pull it in after 

thee, oh, frog, 
Ere exasperated bullet pursue thee in the bog, 
Till your nightly exultations have permanently 

ceased, 
And the poet's meager rations proportion'tely 
increased. 

Stop it, drop it; 
Skip it, hop it, 
Oh, you noisy host, 
Or I'll have you run in and served on toast. 



THE MILLIONAIRES' BALL. 

'Twas held in the glow of a stately hall, 

Decked as it never had been, 
And 'tis said the great society ball 
Was a most unusual scene — 
That the wealth displayed 
And the names arrayed 
Surpassed all the fetes by Mammon yet made, 

The set, it is said, have " money to burn," 

Their clothes are lined with the stuff ; 
They've nothing to do but to live and learn 
How to spend it fast enough. 
And the toilets worn 
Might a throne adorn, 
If dresses could be "to the purple born." 



THE MILLIONAIRES' BALL. 73 

Ostentation! Well, it be all of that! 

What care they, the favored few? 

They know the cringer will still lift his hat, 

And wave it and cheer them, too, 

For the standard's gold, 

And he's bought and sold, 

Tho' spurned as a slave in the days of old. 

O, you sit in your costly pews and thank 

The Lord for being so kind, 
And, with a large surplus of coin in bank, 
You're ready to back your mind. 
The lion's subdued 
That has found his food, 
Though he dine on a tender mother's brood. 

'Tis they who chance to escape from the wreck 

That joyfully dance on the shore, 
While a mother's hand the grave may deck 
Of him who shall sail no more. 
And turning away 
In the storm-tossed spray, 
She sees the shroud of that fatal day. 



74 THE MILLIONAIRES' BALL. 

So strut your hour in your gilded shell — 

Your creed is the creed of the few. 
If the world survive, the world does well, 
And will owe but little to you. 
For your golden calf 
Is not all by half. 
Though perchance it may be your only staff, 



TO MISS ELLA BEERS.* 

I thank you, Ella, for the gift ; 
And yet, the sentiment expressed — 
Presaging, as it does, cf thrift — 
Is scarce what would befit me best. 

Yet should the hidden future hold 

The boon for which I've wrought and 

planned, 
As Mistress Toodles said of old, 
'Twill be so nice to have on hand." 

And should I never come to know 
The welcome touch of coin or bill, 
But pine neglected, even so, 
It shall recall your friendship still. 



* On receiving a pocketbook as a Christmas 
present. 



AFTER THE STORM. 

Though to grieve were vain 
For our loved ones slain, 
Here's a sigh for pulseless hearts, 
And a kiss for the brow that knows no pain, 
Ere the mournful cortege starts. 

We'll follow our dead 

With a solemn tread, 
And water their graves with tears ; 
And leave them to rest in their lowly bed, 
And live for the coming years. 

Lo ! our spires shall rise 

Till they reach the skies, 
And glint in the noonday sun ; 
And our smitten homes, looming heavenwise, 
Shall tell of the vict'ry won. 



AFTER THE STORM. 77 

Not a stone shall rest 
Of the uncrowned crest 
To twit us of our despair, 
For we're men of the staunch and brawny 
West, 
And shun not the Storm-king's dare. 

So forward once more, 

With the vim of yore, 
With trowel, hammer and plane, 
Till the blight has vanished we now deplore, 
And the city 's herself again. 



THE KINGS OF THOUGHT. 

Let us who toil for the better time, 

With our eyes fixed evermore 
On the star-crowned heights we long to climb 
In quest of Apollo's store — 
Now bestow one thought 
To the dead who wrought 
And w T on the laurels we've vainly sought: 



Huntley and Nye and dear Eugene Field, 

And Cockerill and " Little Mack," 
And others whose pens we fain would wield, 
But whose magic touch we lack — 
Let us call the roll 
Of each genial soul 
Till the broken circle is made whole, 



THE KINGS OF THOUGHT. 79 



And we sit once more where bright lights 
swim 
And Pierian waters flow, 
And pledge again to the very brim 
In the wine those choice souls know ; 
For a night like this, 
Of congenial bliss, 
O, what is there else we would not miss? 

So here's to those of the teeming brain, 

Who coin the thoughts that live, 
The precious gems, the winnowed grain, 
The gold that clings to the sieve. 
Power shall decay, 
Riches melt away, 
But the Kings of Thought shall e'er hold 
sway. 



Read at the opening of the St. Louis Press Club, 
April 29, 1897. 



THEIR FIRST MEETING. 
Tou don't remember it, eh? Well, 
/do; an', ef you wish, I'll tell 
You how it happened, fur, you see, 
It all comes back agin to me — 
The oP fa'm-house, the cider-mill, 
An' thicket whar the whipperwill 
Jes humped hisse'f on melody 
Finer 'an any opery. 

'Peared jes like ev'rything wuz new 
An' fresh ez roses soaked with dew ; 
The fiel's wuz full o' mysteries 
The whole year 'roun' ; an' in the trees 
Whar birds wuz hoppin' 'roun' an' sung 
An' built a nes' an' hatched thar young — 
Well, 't seems to me 'at Paradise 
Wuz 'long 'bout then, 'less it comes twice. 




" You don't remember it, eh?' 



(See page 80.) 



THEIR FIRST MEETING. 



But how it wuz we come to meet 
I aimed to tell. Well, time is fleet, 
An' so air hosses, when they're run 
In real dead earnes'. You wuz on 
A nag o' that kin' on that day, 
Frum way the turf flew ; anyway, 
I never seed sech hurry in' 
Sence I wuz bo'n, I'm reckonin*. 

They mus' hev bin expectin'^z*, 
Frum way things looked a day er two ; 
Fur Aunt Merlindy she jes sot 
Herse'f to scourin' ev'ry pot, 
An' chu'ned, an' hed the washhv done 
An' ironin', 'twixt sun an' sun, 
An' scrubbed the po'ch an' steps like she 
Wuz fixin' up fur company. 

x\n' then she goes to makin' pies 
An' cakes, an' doughnuts of sech size 
It jes seemed like a weddin' day 
Wuz 'bout the nex' thing, I should say. 
An' Uncle Dan he killed a shoat 
An' stuffed some sassages ; an' ):>\r 
Posey goes out an' shoots a mess 
O' squir'ls 'at I he'ped him dress 
6 



82 THEIR FIRST MEETING. 

Nex' mornin', 'arly, your pap said 
To Jote, " Hez the bay mar' bin fed?" 
An' then he whispered in his ear 
Suthin' I didn't git to hear. 
When, all a-suddent, 'way Jote went 
A-ridin' down the lane, full bent, 
While Uncle Dan, he hemmed an' hawed 
An* spit, an' his terbacker chawed, 

An' leaned a spell upon the gate 
Ez ef he aimed to medertate ; 
But, seem' me, sez, "Well, I 'low, 
We'll not go out to-day to plow, 
But jes put on our Sunday clo'es 
An' drap in on ol' Deacon Rose, 
A-swappin' with his wife, so 't she 
Kin come to our house fur tea. 

Well, 'peared ez ef the worl' stood still — 
The roosters sca'cely raised a bill — 
The birds lay off, an' wouldn't sing 
A note, er try to lif a wing, 
But sot aroun' amongst the trees 
An' dozed away an' took thar ease 
Like they wuz waitin' till you come 
'Fore hoppin' out to make things hum. 



THEIR FIRST MEETING. 83 

But I wuz lonesome, sure enough, 
When down the road I spied a puff 
O' dus' a-raisin' up behind 
A pair of critters 'at the wind 
Couldn't hev kep' up with, I 'low — 
Er didn't that day, anyhow — 
'Twuz Jote an' ol' Doc Pettigrew 
A=keepin' company with you. 

Well, that wuz the fus' time we met; 
Yit, I mus' say, I never set 
My eyes upon you ez you passed, 
Er tried to speak to you, er ast 
A interduction, fur, you see, 
They hed you hid away frum me. 
I on'y seed the men an' nags, 
' Cause you wuz in Doc's saddlebags ! 



THE OLD EDITOR. 

He had sat so long in his easy chair 

That he carne to think it his own ; 
Not taking account of the wear and tear 

And the frosts Father Time had sown, 
For his hair, once black as the raven's wing. 

Was now white as the driven snow, 
And his mind, 'twas said, was inclined to 
cling 

Too much to the long ago. 

" No fault to find," the Directory said ; 

" He's getting too old, that is all. 
We must now have a younger man instead. 

Or our business will surely pall." 
And he packed his things and he went his 
way, 

And he vanished in time from view. 
And, Mortal, whatever your lot, some day 

The like fate is in store for you, 



THE MAID OF THE SALVATION 
ARMY. 

There's a maiden comes 'round with a paper 
to sell — 

Sing heigh ! to the Salvation Army ; 
And I buy it and tell her I like it quite well — 

Sing heigh ! to the Salvation Army ; 
And I trust it's no sin that it wins me a smile 
From an eye that the cares of the world can 

beguile, 
And I'm sure if she'd ask it, I'd give her my 
pile ; 

The Maid of the Salvation Army. 

She is dressed, I admit, most exceedingly 
plain — 

Sing heigh ! to the Salvation Army ; 
Yet I'm always impatient to meet her again — 

Sing heigh! to the Salvation Army; 



86 THE MAID OF THE SALVATION ARMY= 

For a form that's so fair and a face so divine, 
With luxuriant hair, just the color of wine, 
Is a vision quite rare in this world, I opine — 
The Maid of the Salvation Army. 

But, above all, I love her because she is true — 

Sing heigh ! to the Salvation Army ; 
And so patiently serves where the plaudits are 
few — 

Sing heigh ! to the Salvation Army ; 
Nor awaits till the clamor that follows success 
Has been wrung from the mob, nor the skep- 
tic's caress, 
But joins in the ranks where the valiant may 
press — 

The Maid of the Salvation Army. 

I have stood, in my time, at the foot of the 
crowd — 

Sing heigh! to the Salvation Army; 
And received the rebuffs of the rich and the 
proud — 

Sing heigh ! to the Salvation Army ; 
But the treasure of one has now vanished 

away, 
And the pride of the other is humbled to=day ; 
And, unwept and unsung, they have crumbled 
to clay — 

Oh, Maid of the Salvation Army. 



THE MISSISSIPPI. 

Lo! mighty giant of the noiseless tread, 
That serpent-like sweeps ever to the main, 
And joyous most when most inflicting pain, 
Inspiring all with thoughts of constant dread. 
Now lording high, now bending low thy head, 
For that thou, too, must stoop at times, 'tis 

plain, 
And cringe till waning fountains shall again 
Have all thy greedy, shrinking bulk refed, 
And yet, unconquerable to the last, 
Retaining all thy matchless subtilety. 
And, lo! a polypus thou hast surpassed 
In readjusting thine anatomy, 
And, hydra-like, with all thy mouths so vast, 
Hissing defiance at the threat'ning sea! 



THE POET. 

I was a spark, and, fanned to flame, 

I flicker through this little life ; 
From Him who smote the flint I came, 

And He has led me in the strife. 
He is the source of every thought — 

The inspiration and the deed — 
Without Him there had ne'er been aught 

Of earth or sky or life or seed. 

He rolls the thunder, gives the ear 

That I may hear His awful voice ; 
He gave me visual organs clear — 

If I go wrong it is my choice. 
He could not further prove His love 

Than leave me thus untrammeled, free, 
With all the globe on which to rove 

And work out mine own destiny. 



THE POET. 89 



To learn His will I've bartered ease 

And all that follows in its train, 
Traversing many lands and seas, 

The mountain peak, the fertile plain 
Where wild flowers grow and wild birds sing 

Responsive to the purling brooks. 
And nature's ever whispering 

vSweet secrets that are not in books — 

Sweet secrets from the fountain-head, 

From all contamination free, 
Still pure, although the world be red 

With carnage and with butchery, 
Where Pan still pipes the joyous notes 

The world so long has ceased to hear, 
And wood-nymphs sail their tiny boats 

On crystal lakes that yet appear. 

I know as well the printed page 

And musty tomes I've labored through — 
The thought of each succeeding age — 

The motive that impelled it, too, 
The lusts that lure, the arrogance, 

The selfishness and awful greed 
Of those who've led the world's advance, 

Nor shed a tear to see it bleed. 



90 THE POET, 



Moreover, I'm advanced in ) T ears, 

And ripened by experience ; 
At such an age the vision clears 

And man attains the higher sense. 
The passions cooled, no more he's tossed 

As ship upon the storm-swept sea, 
But in life's calm becomes engrossed 

With things that 'neath the surface be. 

In arrogance, I, too, have sought 

To find the law within the law — 
How life could be evolved from naught — 

Till, trembling, I drew back in awe. 
And fled as Arab to his tent 

Who sees the storm come on amain. 
And kneeling till its fury's spent, 

Peeps out upon the world again. 

I've felt the thrill of horror, too, 

That smites the soul in its despair 
When the unknown obscures the view 

And night and walls are everywhere. 
And yet I did not yield my hope, 

Nor settle to the lesser life 
And with the lower passion grope 

Where luxury annuls the strife, 



THE POET- 91 



But kept my purpose pure and strong, 

And trust I shall until the last, 
And sing in joy the old, old song 

And to the old, old faith hold fast. 
For Pierian waters still shall flow 

For those who seek the sacred mount ; 
The Muse, when wooed, responds, and lo! 

The poet drinks from nature's fount. 



THE HERO OF BRUSH CREEK, 

Jim Pepper wuz his name, but "Jim ' 
Wuz all 'at ever we called him. 
A tramp printer, roamin' about. 
Seedy, an' generally out 
O' money, which wuz rough on him : 
Mighty rough on Jim — 
Rough on Jim. 



Yet, everybody liked the cuss, 
Especially the gals ; they'd fuss 
About him, though on'y a tramp-— 
Yit, when fixed up, the ornery scamp 
Took a good-looker to match him, 
Which wuz good fur Jim — 
Good fur Jim. 



THE HERO OF BRUSH CREEK. 93 

At las' he gits a job, an' buys 
Some clo'es 'at air about his size — 
Not the kin' 'at he ust to wear, 
'At let in all the col' an' air, 
But suthin' 'at wuz built fur him. 
Reg'lar dandy, Jim, 
All in trim. 



An' he stops one day at a fa'm 
House ; cou'se, he didn't mean no ha'm 
Wuzn't to blame fur his good looks, 
An', 'sides, he wuz 'way up in books — 
Knowed poetry an' sech by hea'l. 
An' wuz mighty sma't — 
Mighty sma't. 



The ol' man he wuz purty rich — 
All kin's o' Ian', an' one gal which 
Hed lots o' beaux, but, somehow, she 
Jes seemed to kin' o' naterally 
Leave 'em all go an' take to Jim. 
Wuz dead gone on him ■— 
Suited Jim, 



94 THE HERO OF BRUSH CREEK. 

An' so one day she says, says she, 
"Jim, s'posin' yon take a walk with me ' 
Bern' all along leanin' to'ards him, 
The others' chences gittin' slim, 
O' cou's, ez his'n clim an' clim. 
Good enough fur Jim — 
More 'n pleased him. 



So, 'way they goes, a-listenin' to 
The birds a-singin' tunes they knew — 
'Cause he'd bin in the country some. 
An', cou'se, the country wuz her home 
Stayin' clost to each other, too, 
Jim doin' bes' he knew 
How to do. 



An', purty soon, they struck the crick, 
Right whar the bank hed been wo'n slick, 
'Cause lot o' boys hed jes bin in 
Hevin' a good time a-swimmin' 
An' wettin' it an' slidin' down — 
More like glass 'an groun' 
All aroun', 



THE HERO OF BRUSH CREEK. 95 

An' she says, in her gal-like way, 
Bein' frisky an' full o' play, 
An' vvantin' to make a little free 
With Jim, "I'll push you in!" says she, 
Jes meanin' it, o' cou'se, in fun — 
Wus thing she could done 
Under sun. 



'Cause down he goes, an' her 'long-side. 
'O, my!" she says; "Durn it!" he cried 
Ez they both slid to'ard the crick, 
A-reachin' it, too, purty quick, 
An' makin' a tremendous splash. 
An cuttin' a dash — 
Sech a mash ! 



The water bein' purty deep — 
'Way over both o' thar heads a heap- 
An' neither one could swim a lick — 
Jim wuz a feelin' awful sick. 
Death seemed a starin' right at him. 
O, but he felt grim — 
Chences slim 



96 THE HERO OF BRUSH CREEK. 

O' gittin' out. But, all the same, she 
Stuck to him way we like to see 
A gal do 'at hez got a beau. 
Loved him out o' sight, you know, 
Ez well ez in ; cou'se, that wuz right - 
Clingin' to him tight — 
All her might. 



You never see a gal so true — 
Whatever Jim 'ould do she'd do. 
When he come up, she wuz thar — 
Jes stayed right with him ev'rywhar- 
When he went under, jes the same. 
True? Why that's no name ! 
She wuz game. 



Jim tried his bes' to shake her loose, 
But foun' at las' it wuz no use ; 
An' then he throwed his 'possum eye 
To'ards the sho', an' says, "Le's try 
Ef we can't jes pull out o* here, 5 ' 
She says, "All right, dear," 
With him, clear. 



THE HERO OF BRUSH CREEK. 



At las' by treadin' water an' 
A-pawin' 'roun', they reached the Ian', 
When she says, "Jim, you saved my life, 
An', cou'se, I'll hev to be your wife." 
•Boun' to do it," says Jim, "er die." 
(What a whoppin' lie! 
'Tween you 'n' I.) 



Jim wuz sailin' to save hisse'f, 
An' she wuz boun' she'd not git lef\ 
An' that's the way with me an* you — 
Git credit fur lots we don't do, 
But ' sume the honor all the same, 
Nor reject the claim — 
Seek is fame I 



COMPENSATION. 

I said to a rose in the forest one day, 

"What compensation have you 
For the isolate life that you lead, I pray? 
Now tell me, and tell me true." 

And the rose replied in it's sweet, modest 
way, 
"I'll tell you, and tell you true: 
I've the glorious sunshine throughout the 
day,— 
At night the refreshing dew." 





1 ■■.*m 

E 

K v ^; W':. u *-.-f "■■■•'' V' * 






• 



" i/er Corsair sire had reared her well." 

(See page 99.) 



CORSAIR ISLAND. 

Just inland from the old Balize,' 
Where gulf tides ebb and flow, 

And sails are furled or take the breeze, 
As vessels come and go, 

The island looms in sweet repose — 
A garden all aglow — 

As beautiful as Eden, when 

It held the primal pair, 
With golden fruits and sylvan glen 

And feathered songsters rare ; 
A veritable paradise — 

Another Eve was there. 

Her Corsair sire had reared her well — 

An only child was she — 
And ancient dames are wont to tell 

Of silks and lingerie, 
And jewels fit to deck a crown, 

That came from o'er the sea. 



CORSAIR ISLAND. 



No marvel many suitors came 

To worship at her shrine ; 
Among them lords of ancient name 

And barons from the Rhine ; 
And scions of the peerless South 

Drew proudly into line. 

Seeking in turn to win her love, 
Each met his fate and fled ; 

Her father's child, no plea could move 
The haughty maid to wed. 

She slew a legion with her eyes ; 
He dyed the gulf-stream red. 



So time wore on, and still they sought 

The isle and sailed away. 
Not one had gained her serious thought, 

Or held it for a day, 
Until at last the least of all 

Came humble court to pay. 



No gorgeous retinue had he 
To follow in his train, 

But bore the stamp of poverty 
And sad neglect and pain ; 

And yet he was of noble form 
And princely pose and mein. 



CORSAIR ISLAND. 



He spoke in accents soft and low — 

His every word a deed 
More potent than the warrior's blow 

That smites for home and creed, 
Or storm that sweeps the Mexic sea 

Like some vast winged steed. 



"My treasure is not of the earth ; 

I've neither land or gold, 
Nor titled rank, nor ancient birth, 

Nor aught that may be told ; 
And yet the key to all that is 

In earth or heaven I hold." 



With this he vanished as he came — 

A vision fair to see — 
But left a cross, on which in flame 

Was written, bold and free : 
"If thou wouldst know the better life. 

Take this and follow me." 



She fell upon her face and wept ; 

She tore her silken hair ; 
For days she scarcely ate or slept, 

And moaned in her despair, 
Until at last good Pere La Fount 

Came in to offer prayer. 



CORSAIR ISLAND. 



Surfeit of sorrow well may bring 
The sternest knee to bend — 

Since mortal all, e'en queen or king, 
And pride must have an end. 

And penitent enough she fell 
Beside the Pere, her friend. 



They rose — her erstwhile careworn face 

Resplendent shone instead ; 
A chastened spirit's inward grace 

Her countenance o'erspread; 
That after-calm which lulls the sea 

When recent storms have fled. 



She freed her slaves and with her gold 

She reared upon the isle 
A convent for the Master's fold — 

A grand and goodly pile, — 
And sought no other recompense 

Than His approving smile. 



And ever since, sweet vesper bells 

Have floated o'er the tide, 
While many a ship-worn sailor tells 

The story far and wide, 
Tho' Corsair, Priest and Maid have long 

Been sleeping side by side. 



CORSAIR ISLAND. 103 

Oh, God, who made us one and all, — 

The present and the past — 
Who mark'st the tender sparrow's fall 

And guid'st the tempest's blast, 
All things are working to Thy end, 

And bend to Thee at last! 



WHO? 

Who rules the world? " I," saith the King. 
"My despotism is the thing 
To govern man, Invincible, 
My edicts nothing can annul." 

Who rules the world? "I," saith the Pope. 
"I am its only guide and hope. 
Unlike all other monarchs, I 
Am clothed with power from on high." 

Who rules the world? "I," saith the Son 
Of Toil. "I am the potent one — 
The subtle force that underlies 
All progress wrought beneath the skies." 



WHO ? 105 



Who rules the world? " I," saith a Voice 
From out the stars. "Rejoice! Rejoice! 
I am a jealous God; and, lo ! 
Return with interest blow for blow." 

Then throughout space arose the cry, 
God reigns, and Justice cannot die!" 
And those who thought to thwart His sway 
Fled in confusion and dismay. 



OLD UNCLE IKE. 

OF Uncle Ike is eighty-three 

Year oV an' pas' ; an't looks like he 
Can't las' much longer; sight nigh gone, 
An' hard o' hearin', leanin' on 
His cane, an' lookin' at the groun' 
Ez ef nobody wuz aroun', 

Jes like he wuz a-listenin' 

Fur Gran' ma to come back agin, 
Er waitin' fur to go to her 

A-sleepin' in the chu'ch-ya'd ther'. 
lt Hum, hum, hum, hum," 's 'bout all he sez ; 
"Hum, hum, hum, hum," s' a way he hez. 

You wouldn't think, to see him now, 

'At he wuz ever much, I 'low. 
Waal, that's his gun ther' on the rack — 
Jes heft it, an' you'll put it back. 
Hoi' it out off-han' — not to-day ! 
Took him to han'le it that 'ere way! 



OLD UNCLE IKE. 107 

Flint-lock, brich bu'nt, an' out o' date, 
An' rusty, an' ol'er 'an the State — 
"OP ez the hills," is what they say. 
It hez a re-cord, anyway, 
'At hain't bin beat sence Dan'l Boone 
An' Crockett, an' it won't be soon. 

You orto've seed him on the trail 

Of a fat buck — jes seemed to sail — 
Dressed all in white to match the snow 
An' look a pa't of it, jes so 
They wouldn't s'picion any one 
Wuz 'roun', an' undertake to run. 

But ther' wuz venison to spar' 

An' buckskin fur to make an' w'ar 
In them oV days, an' wimmin fo'ks 
Wuz full of fun, an' hed the'r jokes, 
An' times wuz better, too, an' now, 
Er seemed to be so, anyhow. 

But he ain't layin' any store 

On sech things now ; he hunts no more, 
'Cept, mebbe, sometimes in his dreams 
When watchin licks er crossin' streams, 
Er listenin' to the pheasant's drum 
Till, wakin', mutters, "Hum, hum, hum!" 



THE IRONY OF FATE. 

A Croesus of ambitious turn 

Sought to increase his fame, 

And cried, "I'll woo the thoughts that burn 
And win the poet's name." 

A poet sang from o'er- wrought heart 

Till many felt his spell ; 
Then mused, "Since famous at my art, 

I would have gold, as well." 

Each chased a phantom to the end — 

Evasive that he sought — 
The Muse no more the poet's friend, 

And Croesus found her not. 



VOICES. 

" Say," said the rail to the hammer, "this 

man is getting too smart, 
Setting us thus to contending and playing the 

menials' part. 
Wish I were back in the mountain, at rest, as 

I used to be ; 
And then, just to think that you, too, are 

always a-pounding me!" 

"I'm not to blame," said the hammer; "if 

you kick, kick at the man. 
O, I got it as bad as you — both through his 

processes ran ; 
Alike we were smelted and rolled, made into 

hammer and bar 
And tempered, his purpose to serve; and so, 

you see, here we are." 



VOICES. 



"You're right," said the wire above; " man 

is entirely too fresh. 
Who'd ever have thought one like me would 

thus be caught in his mesh ? 
But I guess that I am to blame, and it only 

serves me right — 
I should have known better than fool with 

Uncle Ben and his kite." 

The water in tank near said, "It is just the 

same with me ; 
Diverted from streams that I love, I long again 

to be free. 
A tyrant, indeed, is this man — seems like he 

just wants the earth. 
If this is a perm'nent thing, I'm sorry I ever 

had birth." 

Then a whisper came down the rail — came 
from the ocean away — 

Old Neptune had heard them and said, "Guess 
we have all had our day. 

My realm is now white with the sail, my winds 
are defied, and, lo ! 

He drives his swift bark to their source, ignor- 
ing all laws I know. 



VOICES. 



"And at last we're threatened, as well," said 

a bird sitting near by ; 
"Not satisfied with the whole globe, he's now 

determined to fly." 
And then all the forces cried out — present 

and those far away — 
"Seems like we're a part of one whole, come 

to its own and to stay." 



THE SILENT VOTE. 

Storm-tossed and trembling rode the Ship of 
State ; 
"God! will she weather it?" the watchword 

ran, 
"For rocks are bare, and wreckers stand and 
wait 
To pillage her of all that's dear to man." 

But when the morning sun rose round and 

red, 
The good old craft was sighted, still afloat, 
And on her bunting, waving high, was 

spread: — 
"Saved fro?n the wreckers by the silent vote!" 



THE MODERN BARON. 

I strolled upon the boulevard 
And gazed upon the scene ; 
"Ah! this is labor's just reward," 
I said within, "I ween — 
This harmony and sweet accord 
Where toil and strife hath been." 

Equipages were flitting by, 

Like shuttles, to and iro, 

And there was envy in this eye, 

And pride in that, also ; 

And there were those who heaved a sigh 

That trod the street below. 

"And why is this?" said I to one; 

"Wherefore this human tide? 
What is it they would gaze upon? — 
They come from far and wide." 
He answered, "Other scene there's none 
Than that on either side. 8 



1 1 4 THE MODERN BARON. 

"These are the mighty lords of trade. 
The barons of to-day ; 
Unlike the old they wield no blade 
To drive fierce foes away. 
They lead the great commercial raid 
Where brothers tribute pay. 

"No battlements are needed here — 
The law protects them now — 
Nor frowning armor, sword nor spear 
Hang on the walls, I trow. 
Such trophies can no longer cheer — 
To gold alone they bow." 

"And brave retainer, where is he?" 
"Seek out the city's slums, 

Stroll through the haunts of penury 

Where real life never comes. 

You'll find him there; he'll bend the knee 

And thank you for your crumbs. 

"He once knew honor — shed his blood — 
E'en dared he to aspire ; 
He at the very front has stood 
And met the foeman's Are, 
And stirred afresh affection's flood 
And waked the slumb'ring lyre." 



THE MODERN BARON. 115 

But who shall sing thy praises now, 
Neglected son of toil? 
Th} T bended form and dampened brow 
Meet only with recoil. 
'Tis thine to serve and cringe and bow, 
And, without question, moil. 

Is this the destiny of man — 
The mass to melt away 
And vanish, that the few may scan 
Their conquests for a day, 
Then join alike the caravan 
That moves to walls of clay? 

No ; he shall yet come to his own ; 
Knowledge shall make him free, 
And discord be a thing unknown, 
And strife shall cease to be — 
All bow before Jehovah's Throne 
And know no God but He. 



LIFE. 

Two vessels in mid ocean meet, 
And " Ship, ahoy! " each other greet; 
'O, whence and whither, sail so fleet?" 

'I hail from out the silence there " — 
Each gazing back with solemn air — 
'And hie, alas! I know not where." 

When One came walking on the sea — 
'Lo! I reveal all mystery; 
He finds a port who follows me." 



OLD BILL. 

: OP Bill " is all the name we know ; 
He don't talk much — he's crippled so 
Paralyzed an' all bent-up, too ; 
All he can do to look at you. 

But he's game, 

All the same, 
Jes ez ef he wuzn't lame. 

Bill's better 'an he ust to be — 
Wus' cripple then you ever see, 
I reckon. List to go aroun' 
A-sellin' papers in the town 

On crutches ; 

Hard lot his — 
Hardes', I reckon, 'at ther' is. 

But wouldn't beg; jes stan' an' sell 
Papers like any man 'at's well ; 



n8 OLD BILL. 



An' wouldn't thank you when you'd buy- 
Hu't him to talk so; that is why. 

But his look 

Wuz a book, 
An' 'at wuz what the people took. 

That wuz Bill fur jes years an' years, 
Till one day the ol' man appears 
On the street, all fixed up, like he 
Hed jes popped out of the laundry. 

New shoes on ; 

Crutches gone, 
An' lookin' neat ez any one. 

How did it happen? Well, they say 
('Cause Bill won't talk fur love er pay) 
'At somebody's a-backin' him 
An' keepin' him up, too, in trim, 
Ez you see. 
Tony, he, 
Ez anybody need to be. 

Fo'ks say 'at God don't he'p the pore ; 
Bill says He does (an' he knows, shore), 
But don't let on, 'cause 'twouldn't do 
To show He keered fur me an' you. 

If He did, 

We'd git rid 
Of work, an' look to Him instid. 



OLD BILL. H9 



That's what Bill says, rollin' his eyes 
Longin'-like up to'ards the skies — 
Can't do it 'less he's lay in' down 
With his bent back agin the groun'. 

But he'll lay 

That a-way 
Fur hours an' hours at night, they say, 

An' never openin' his lips, 

Jes like he's a gittin' tips 

Frum the angels what's bes' to do, 

Er thankin' Him 'at pulled him through 

Grateful fur 

Mercies yer, 
An' knowin' 'at ther's more up ther'. 

That's him ther', an' he's payin' cash 
Fur papers now, an' fur his hash. 
Change anything from a five-er 
Down to a nickel, settin' ther'. 

Gittin' straight, 

Too, o' late ; 
I tell you, Bill hez " struck it" great! 

Well, all we know about it is 
('Cause Bill he never tells his biz), 



20 OLD BILL. 



A great, fine lady drives this way 
Purty nearly every day, 

An* she stops ; 

Then Bill flops 
Right up, an' goes to her an' drops 

A paper in her han', while she 
Keeps right on talkin', pleasantly, 
Fur a spell, then drives away 
After givin' Bill his pay. 

Then you hear, 

Ef you're near, 
Something a-soundin' in your ear. 

It's Bill a-mumblin' to hisse'f — 
He alus does it when she's lef — 
'Needn't say 'at rich fo'ks don't car' ! 
They don't let on, like Him up ther' 

Ef they did, 

We' git rid 
O' work an' look to them instid." 





s , j 



ij'»» H; 



> 








' ' ^4 gre«£ /£?ie lady drives this way 
Purty nearly ev'ry day" 



(Set 'page 120.) 



ANTE-NUPTIAL. 

Tis but the irony of fate 
That keeps our kindred souls apart, 
And bids me hopelessly to wait 
While I would press thee to my heart, 
And love thee when those glowing lines 
Of beauty seemed to others dull ; 
For time thy spirit but refines, 
And showeth thee more beautiful. 



FATE. 

A rose, upon a summer day, 
Called to the billows plaintively, — 
'I languish for thy cooling spray." 

To which the ocean made reply, — 
k I fill with moisture yonder sky ; 
Turn thitherward thy longing eye." 

A vessel, sadly tempest-tossed, 
Goes down, and all on board are lost, 
Tho' pious hands in prayer are crossed, 

And from the lightning's forked tongue, 
Re-echoing the stars among — 
'Man perished thus when time was young." 



FATE. 123 



A toiler uttereth his moan — 
'Alas! my every hope hath flown; 
I sow where harvests are unknown." 

When, lo! a brooklet, rippling by, 
Cries in exultant melody, 
'There are green fields beneath the sky. 

Two kindred souls are joined as one 
In " holy rites " — the years go on, 
And sorrow comes between anon. 

'Lord, teach my feeble lips to pray," 
One cries in anguish ; " lead the way.' 
The other perished in its clay. 



THE ANCIENT CITIZEN. 

Sit-in-His-Tent-and-Smoke-His-Pipe 

Was the ancient citizen, 
The last of that distinguished type 
Of the " old-school gentlemen." 

Sit in his tent and smoke, 

Sit in his tent and smoke ; 

Sit in his tent and smoke his pipe. 

Sit in his tent and smoke. 

He wore his blanket a la cafe — 

Though I grieve it wasn't new — 
Drawing it close about the nape 

Of his neck where the fierce winds blew 

Sit in his tent and smoke, 

Sit in his tent and smoke ; 

Sit in his tent and smoke his pipe, 

Sit in his tent and smoke. 



THE ANCIENT CITIZEN. 125 

But when the temperature was warm 

He threw it to the breeze — 
Sort of a frontier dress reform, 
Or Wild West go-as-you-please. 

Sit in his tent and smoke, 

Sit in his tent and smoke ; 

Sit in his tent and smoke his pipe, 

vSit in his tent and smoke. 

He loved the good things of this life — 

His squaw and pappooses, too, 

Joined with vim in the daily strife 

In search of the choicest brew. 

Sit in his tent and smoke, 

Sit in his tent and smoke ; 

Sit in his tent and smoke his pipe, 

Sit in his tent and smoke. 

But Charon came and bore old Sit 

Across to the other side, 
Where things, they say, are built to fit 
A man of his lordly pride. 

Sit in his tent and smoke, 

Sit in his tent and smoke ; 

Sit ii\his tent and smoke his pipe, 

Sit in his" tent and smoke. 



126 THE ANCIENT CITIZEN. 

But the " Village by the Mississip' " 

Is a-booming, just the same 
As it was before he made the trip — 
Hip, hip, hurrah! to his fame. 

Sit in his tent and smoke, 

Sit in his tent and smoke ; 

Sit in his tent and smoke his pipe, 

Sit in his tent and smoke. 




" Jes ez it wuz when I wuz young." 

(Seepage 127.) 



SAME OLD WAY. 

Jes ez it vvuz when I wuz young: — 
Your mother lef' her fo'ks an clung 
To me ; an' it's natural you 
Should want to hev your own way, too. 
Guyrls mos'ly do in marryin', 
An' 'tain't no use fur kith or kin 
To argy with 'em. You will be 
Happier 'an you air with me. 

Your mother's things — only a few 
Trinkets 'at she lef to you — 
You'll find 'em in the closet there — 
They all air your'n — the lock o' hair, 
An' locket, an' the Bible she 
Writ your name in the day 'at we 
Hed you christened, an' you cried — 
An' now you're goin' to be a bride! 



128 SAME OLD WAY. 

Well, all of us mus' say good-bye 
Some time, darter, — come, now, don't cry 
You're only doin' what you should, 
An' what'll be fur your own good — 
What ev'ry young guyrl ought to do. 
You'll visit me sometimes, won't you? 
What! Ain't goin' away ? Then we 
Will hev to find room here fur three! 



THE PRESS CLUB BUFFET. 

Of all the clubs, there is not one can hold a 
candle to 

The Press Club of St. Louis, if you'll take it 
through and through. 

There is no nicer place to pass the idle hours 
away — 

Just furnished fine as silk throughout, includ- 
ing a buffet. 

Our library, we must admit, is rather small as 
yet; 

But books will soon be pouring in, and, there- 
fore, we'll not fret ; 

For publishers will soon find out that such 
investments pay, 

Especially when they're discussed right here 

in our buffet. 

9 



130 THE PRESS CLUB BUFFET. 

And such a smoking-room! You'd think the 

Great Mogul was here, 
With all his traps from Turkey, which are 

wonderful and queer — 
Where you could "hit the pipe" and dream of 

Paradise away 
Until you want your coffee, then slip out to 

the buffet. 



Of course, we haven't got the wealth that 

many others claim, 
Nor own palatial quarters for exhibiting the 

same ; 
But then we've youth and brains and hope and 

wives and sweethearts gay, 
And from their castles in the air they visit our 

buffet. 

A buffet is a place where you can get an all- 
round meal, 

And something else, if needs must be, to help 
you think and feel. 

And when the old-time journalists drop into 
town, they pay 

A visit to the Press Club and proceed to the 
buffet. 



THE PRESS CLUB BUFFET 



131 



And then the steward sets them out a meal 

that makes them think 
Of all the cookery they've known they've 

found at last the pink. 
It turns their minds to home again, and mother 

far away, 
And raises thoughts of other things that lodge 

in the buffet. 



And then a cork is heard to pop, and some- 
thing's sure to rise 

Much faster in the glasses than plain water; 
then, likewise, 

They lift the same unto their lips in such a 
practised way, 

You'd think that they'd been born and bred 
right here in the buffet. 

And all at once their tongues are loosed ; ideas 

are flowing quick, 
And buds of fancy blossom into flowers of 

rhetoric ; 
And now you hear them talk of days when 

work was only play, 
Ere age had come to make it hard, right there 

in the buffet. 



132 THE PRESS CLUB BUFFET. 

And Cockerill and " Little Mack," and Field, 

and others gone. 
Come in for their full meed of praise, although 

they're needing none ; 
And all the boys whose mighty pen bestir the 

world to-day 
Come up in turn to be discussed right there in 

the buffet. 

What club can show a feast like this — such 

gentle flow of soul ? 
No thought of selfishness nor power, nor things 

that wealth control ; 
Just kindly words for good old times and 

friends who've passed away, 
Which seem to sanctify and bless and honor 

the buffet. 

And to all such the latch-string's out, and ever 

may it be, 
Whose memories serve to keep alive the old 

fraternity. 
Though gather they from far or near, to all of 

such we say, 
Drop in and have a pleasant chat in the Press 

Club buffet. 



DEACON WILLIAMS' REMARKS. 

I've alus 'lowed 'at 'tain't fine clo'es er looks 

'at makes the man, 
Ner them air fine city manners, ner nothin' of 

that kin', 
But the will to do an' dar' — - an' know also jes 

when — 
Hez mos' distinguished them ez lef immortal 

names behin'. 

Do you 'low 'at Davy Crockett an' Dan'l Boone 

an' sech 
Wuz a-loafin' 'roun' club-houses an' rid in' on 

a bike, 
A-squanderin' all thar stren'th an' time that 

away ? Not much ! 
At leas', so we're all 'lowin' 'at's residin' up 

in Pike. 



i34 DEACON WILLIAMS' REMARKS. 

They wuzn't the kin' of tenderfeet 'at wore 

long hair an' looked 
Like they hed bin chasin Injuns, an' jes drapt 

in fur a res' 
An' git thar picters took an' some new cloe's 

to w'ar, an' booked 
To enter your sassiety an' live upon the bes'. 

Same way with Uncle Abe an' all the famous 

people 'at 
Air sleepin' under monuments 'at's purty fine 

an' high, 
Whose names we never mention now onless 

we HP our hat ; 
They sca'cely slep' on roses when a-layin' thar 

fame by. 

An' authors 'at you read about, but seldom 

ever see, 
'Cause they're not out fur show, a-ridin' on 

the boulevard — 
You'd like to hev thar fame, no doubt; but 

that can never be 
Onless you pay the price they paid an' also 

wo'k ez hard. 



DEACON WILLIAMS' REMARKS, 135 



You're not all 'at thar is on earth, although 

you think you air, 
A-rollin' in wealth an' spendin' what you never 

earn. 
In manhood's scale you're but a chil' upon the 

lower stair, 
An', surfeited yourse'f, deny the sacred flames 

'at burn. 

An' talk of your society, an' houses 'at's so 

fine, 
Whar pore fo'ks never like to go, because they 

feel more pore — 
Do you reckon 'at I'd like it ef some of 'em 

wuz mine 
An' hungry they come beggin' an' you chased 

'em frum the door? 

An' yit you keep a-preachin' God's the Father 

of us all — 
Do you 'low 'at He ain't sorry when fo'ks 

can't make thar way? 
An' that He doesn't worry when He hears His 

chil'n call 
Fur bread 'at He hez furnished — an' you 

actin' that away? 



36 DEACON WILLIAMS' REMARKS. 



Don't reckon 'cause your money'll buy every- 
thing 'at's here 

'At it'll cut a figger in the life 'at is to be. 

The same han'-vvritin's on the wall, an' you 
can read it clear, — 

" "Switch ye did it unto them ye did it u?ito 
me ! ' ' 



"WHAT IS THERE IN IT?" 

"What is there in it?" he said in stealth — 
This law-maker of the land ; 

"For I'm not here, you see, for my health.' 
The answer was close at hand : — - 

"For you there is in it what you seek 

In your groveling soul, — that's pay — 
The shame of one who deserts the weak 
And barters their rights away. 

"For a man there's glory, honor, fame, 
And all that we most revere, 
And proving great the immortal name 
That the true soul holds so dear." 



HERMIT OF CANEBRAKE POINT. 

Where the woods are dense and broad and 
deep, 
And the zephyrs gently blow, 
Where the ferns and water lilies peep 

From the swamps that stretch below — 
If you're coming west, 
The view is the best — 
Look to the right; you will learn the rest. 

For the rivermen all know the spot, 

And turn to it as they pass, 
Gazing in awe at a grave and cot, 
Half hid in the tangled grass ; 
And tell of a night 
When the sky grew bright 
From a burning boat that sank from sight ; 




" Imagine his anguish, if you can.' 7 

(Seepage 139.) 



HERMIT OF CANEBRAKE POINT. 139 

Of a fair young bride and a groom, as well, 

Submerged in the surging flood. 
And the heart is stern that does not swell 
When their story is understood, 
For the one he bore 
In his arms to shore 
Was the bride of Death forevermore. 



Imagine his anguish, if you can, 

Sitting alone by her side ; 
And say, in the unknown fate of man, 
Can greater sorrow betide ? — 
Awaiting to see 
His own destiny 
Writ in her face when the dawn should be. 



Sweet is the sound of the human voice 

To the lonely sufferer's ear; 
And be sure he felt his heart rejoice 
When two bearded men drew near 
Woodchoppers were they 
From the bend away, 
Where fuel waiting the steamers lay. 



i 4 o HERMIT OF CANEBRAKE POINT. 

They bore the twain to the bank above, 
And rendered what aid they could, 
And reared the lodge, as it well behove, 
For shelterless was the wood : 
And fashioned a bed 
From the moss that spread 
Its somber canopy overhead. 



You'd think a rude sepulchre, indeed, 

Awaited her there that day ; 
A dearth of tears and religious creed, 
And lips that were used to pray — 
Yet the Word was read, 
And a prayer was said, 
While each sturdy woodsman bowed his head 



They buried her in that lone retreat, 
Where the solemn owlets croon, 
And the water-sprites are wont to greet 
The light of the midnight moon. 
And the pilots tell 
When the white fogs swell, 
There comes the sound of a tiny bell, 



HERMIT OF CANEBRAKE POINT 141 

Calling the sisters from out the deep 

To the nightly trysting place, 
Where the lonely hermit lies asleep, 
With the sorrow-laden face ; 
And the one, 't is said, 
That kneels by his bed 
Is the soul of her he mourns as dead. 



Howsoe'er this be, the boatmen say 

The story is true; and, more, 
Food at the cabin is left each day 
By the woodsmen on the shore, 
As he sits beside 
The grave of his bride, 
Silently watching the flowing tide. 



As to who he is, or whence they came, 

Nothing whatever is known ; 
Whether born obscure, or of noble name ; 
For his reason was overthrown 
On that awful night 
When the sky was bright 
From the burning boat that sank from sight. 



i 4 2 HERMIT OF CANEBRAKE POINT. 

But the world goes on, tho' we weep and sigh, 

Tho' the heart be torn with pain, 
Tho' the song depart, tho' the gladness die, 
Tho' the tears gush forth amain ; 
And the rose shall bloom 
By the yew-decked tomb, 
And shall flourish until the day of doom. 



''■WHO'LL START 'ER?" 

We ust to hev a feller here — ■ 

Jedge Lanham, the ol' auctioneer — 
'At hed a way o' doin' things 
'At kind o' to the mem'ry clings 

An' makes us wisht we hed him back 

To set us onct more on track 

O' doin' suthin* 'at 'ould be 

Like to bring prosperity. 

" Who'll Start 'Err' 's what he ust to 
say — 
He alus talked jes that a-way, 
Whether it wuz a chicken fight, 
A hoss-race, er a game at night, 
With a big jack-pot in his mind, 
Er anything 'at wuz designed 
To he'p to pass the time away 
An' boom the town an' country. 



i 4 4 "WHO'LL START 'ER?" 

Them vvuz the days when times wuz 

good, 
An' fo'ks wuz actin' ez they should, 
An' salaries wuz jes all wool 
An' a yard wide, an' measured full ; 
An' Christmas-time an' Fourth July 
An' Easter didn't all go by 
'Thout ever makin' pore fo'ks glad, 
But ev'rybody lookin' sad. 

But ever since the Jedge is dead 
We've jes bin hustlin' fur bread. 
Nothin' is ever bought er sold, 
Ner taxes paid — jes growin' old 
An' gittin' porer ev'ry day, 
An' lots o' us a-growin' gray, 
An' waitin' fur the time to come — 
I tell you 'ts purty rough on some. 

So thinkin', I jes ast myse'f 
(That is what little ther' is lef) — 
'''-What is the matter, anyhow?" 
Ther' mus' be suthin's wrong, I 'low, 
Fur seasons come jes ez they did, 
An' sun an' stars an' moon ain't hid. 



"WHO'LL START 'ER?" 145 

An' craps air bountiful; what's more, 
We're free frum pestilence an' war 

An' all the sorrers 'at befall 
An' settle like a fun'ral pall 
On other lan's acrost the sea, 
Especially in India, 
Wher' fo'ks air starvin' ev'ry day 
An' meltin' like the snow away. 
So, thinkin' back an' 'roun'-about, 
Ef possible to think it out, 

I drapped in on ol' Ninety-six 
An' rassled some with politics. 
Mebbe it wuz the currency 
'At's hu'tin' us; an' mebbe we 
All voted wrong — er 't leas' enough 
O' us to make the times so tough 
By puttin' in McKinley wher' 
We should hev Bryan in the che'r. 

An' so I thought, an' thought, an' 

thought, 

An' went to sleep the way I ought — 

'Cause ev'rybody's sleepin' now, 

Er 'pear to be so, anyhow ; 
10 



M6 "WHO'LL START 'ER ? " 

'vSides, the more res' a feller gits 
The less he'll hev o' grievin' fits. 
An' purty soon I 'gin to dream, 
An' this is jes how things did seem: — 

I wuz a comin' down the street, 
An' ev'ry feller 'at I'd meet 
Wuz walkin' on his uppers, an' 
When all at onct I heered a ban', 
An', lookin' up, who should I see 
But the ol' Jedge approachin' me? 
The ban' waz playin' "Dixie Lan'," 
An' fo'ks wuz thick on ev'ry han\ 

An', when the ban' hed stopped, he 

rose — 
The same ol' Jedge, an' nat'ral pose 
An' look o' kin' benevolence — 
All knowed him at a single glance — 
An' holdin' in each han' a crutch, 
The ones he used to love so much. 
Although he suffered like a martyr — 
"Boys," he said, "I've come to start 
>er." 

An' then the crowd begun to cheer 
Till you could hear 'em far an' near, 



"WHO'LL START 'ER?" 147 

An' 't seemed prosperity hed come — 
An' happiness to ev'ry home. 
An' ez the Jedge passed out o' view — 
'Ef times git dull agin zvith you, 
An* you can't git 'long herearter, 
I'll co?ne back agin an' start 'er." 

An' then I woke, an' 't seemed to me 
My dream hed solved the mystery. 
Ther's nothin' wrong at all, except 
We've, jes like ol' Van Winkle, slept 
Till wrinkles an' white hairs hev come. 
An' this is jes about the sum: — 
Hain't a blessed thing the marter ;)] 
yes wanted the Jedge to start 'er! 



A REVERIE. 

The house was still ; the good wife and the 

children were in bed ; 
The poet read and dozed and thought till half 

the night had fled, 
Until at last some waking cock the long-pent 

silence smote, 
Then, rousing from his lethargy, he seized his 

pen and wrote: — 

"I hold that handsome woman's still more 

handsome on a bike, 
Especially when she displays an ankle that we 

like; 
I note the opposite as well, though put it not 

in stock, 
Because I've none too much of hair, and 

would not lose a lock. 



A REVERIE. 149 



" Moreover, that she looks her best when she 

is most inspired ; 
And unsuccessful husbands tend to make her 

* awful tired ; 
And he who'd grow in her esteem and her 

best graces win 
Must have the knack of hustling, and bring 

the good things in. 

" That pedigree's of no avail, if poverty's our 
lot, 

And little care we for the sires of colts if they 
can trot ; 

That ne'er a shout went up on earth for for- 
tune, evil-starred, 

But all the plaudits and acclaim are for the 
winning card. 

" That age and wrinkles still will come, tho' 

clothes be fine and new, 
And all the world's cosmetics change but the 

external view ; 
And tho' we ape the youthful gait and frisk- 

iness of spring, 
The vanished years, with all their weight, will 

still about us cling. 



ISO A REVERIE. 



" That when we lose our grip and start down 
fortune's steep incline, 

The skids are always found prepared and 
greased with bacon rind, 

And everybody stands aside to give us a fail- 
show, 

And seem to take delight in seeing just how 
fast we'll go." 

The cock here crew a second time ; the poet 

dropped his pen. 
The fowl had emphasized the thought — the 

poet said " Amen! " 
And as the one went forth in glee, the cheerful 

flock to lead, 
The other dropped upon his couch and slept, 

as was his need. 



MIDAS. 

Old Midas is leading the world to-day, 
And gold, to be sure, is his goal. 
'There's nothing worth doing that doesn't 

P a y> 

Say they who now seek to control — 
A worldly-wise set, on the whole. 

Lo! the creeds proclaim it to costly pew, 
And from lips that are well endowed, 
The doctrine, of course, is entirely new, 
Which is why it pleases the crowd — 
A liberal set, 'tis allowed. 

The " Cross and the Crown " we have left 

behind, 
As things that belong to the past ; 
And we drift as a ship before the wind, 
That's stripped of sail, rudder and mast — 
What seas shall o'ertake us at last? 



52 MIDAS. 



Will the Savior come as He came of old, 
And command the storm to be still? 
And gather us once more into the fold 
When of sin we have had our fill? — 
O, think of this now, if you will! 



The flag that we float and the lives we live 
Grew out of the blood that He shed. 
Was it in vain? Was it poured in a sieve? 
Alas! is His memory dead? — 
Has the love for the Master fled ? 



Is there nothing in life but gilded show - 
The palace — the equipage fine — 
The luxuries that but the few may know 
The seductive club and the wine, 

Where the noblest thought is to dine? 



Has he who toils for the good of the race 
No voice to be heard in the age? 
Do the few brave souls but a phantom chase 
That still cling to the sacred page? — 
Is it deaf to the poet's rage? 




M 1 D''AS 



' ' Old Midas is leading the world to-day, 
And gold, to be sure, is his goal." 

{Seepage 151.) 



MIDAS. 155 



There's nothing on earth we'll not outlive, 
If we'll only prosper enough ; 
And the giver is spurned who ceases to give, 
And treated, in turn, to a cuff — 
While the ingrate turns in a huff. 

And the god you serve you'll desert as well 
When he ceases to serve your store ; 
And you'll point to his ass's ears and tell 
Of a life that you then deplore — ■ 

For he's waiting for one wreck more. 

The law is writ, "As you sow you shall 

reap," 
And time is still proving it true ; 
It is very old, but it seems to keep, 
And will never be changed for you — 
It will last till the race is through. 

And what is the seed that is sown each day 

Broadcast for the harvest to come ? 

Do you think the crop, on the whole, will 

pay? 
Has the question stricken you dumb? — 
Satan surely will count the sum. 



156 MIDAS. 



Let us cry a halt ere humbled to dust 
By the God whom we have defied — 
Renounce while we may this creature of lust 
And put the false idol aside, 

Howe'er it may humble our pride. 



THE FORTY-NINER. 

Somewhere along about "nine p.m." most the 

whole year around, 
Yours Truly at the Hotel Beers may generally 

be found ; 
And pretty soon another man draws near and 

takes a seat, 
And then folks see 'bout how it looks when 

two old cronies meet. 

We don't say very much at first, but sit awhile 

and think, 
And cast a glance down at the floor, and then 

upward and blink, 
For thoughts come rather slow, somehow, with 

folks along in years, 
And ideas seem to have moved back to 'way 

behind the ears. 



158 THE FORTY-NINER. 

Others, of course, are sitting 'round, and pass- 
ing in and out ; 

Among them some fine ladies, and we notice 
them, no doubt. 

And pretty soon the Madam comes and takes 
a seat close by, 

When all at once we seem to see that air-ship 
in the sky. 

And then we rest a little while, and Uncle 

George gets up 
And says, 'thout ever looking back, " Come 

in an' hev a cup." 
And then he slowly leads the way, with me so 

close 'longside, 
That folks begin to look for rope to see if we 

ain't tied. 

And presently he says again, the same old 

way, says he: 
"Jes take a cheer an' res' a spell, an' hev a 

cup with me," 
When, sure enough, the Madam comes and 

sits down by us, too, — 
Just seems to like to look at George, the way 

she ought to do. 



THE FORTY-NINER. 159 

And when the coffee is brought in, and cakes 
and things set out, 

A silence like the 'lectric beams fall on the 
things about — 

A benediction, as it were — and then I just 
resign 

Myself to listen once again to tales of "Forty- 
nine." 

The Madam, having heard them all, of course 

gets up to go, 
But as there is good grub around, of course, I 

stay, you know, 
For when the stomach's occupied, the brain's 

not hard to please — 
Besides, it leaves the mind all free to wander 

at its ease. 

And so I look in George's face and find the 

wrinkles gone — 
Looks like he never had a care, and never 

would have one. 
With eyes half-closed and voice subdued, and 

accents soft and fine, 
He leads me back in gentle mood to good old 

" Forty-nine." 



160 THE FORTY-NINER. 

And so I pass a pleasant hour, and so I hope 

to do 
Till old Saint Peter swings the gate and bids 

us all pass through ; 
Then, with the Madam there, of course to see 

the coffee's fine 
And of the brand the angels drink, we'll ring 

up " Forty-nine." 




The Madam, having heard them all, of course 
gets up to go." 

{See page 169.) 



WEBSTER GROVES. 

Just outside of St. Louis, an hour's ride or 
so, — 

By the new trolley lines or by steam you may 
go — 

Enthroned on the hills, like a queen in her 
pride, 

Looms a suburban town where a number re- 
side. 

Dear Webster Groves ! 
Quaint Webster Groves ! 

Where the birds build their nests and the tame 
squirrel roves. 



In pronouncing the name, do not leave out 

the "S." 
Such a breach of decorum would cause much 

distress ; 



164 WEBSTER GROVES. 

For the limits are broad, there are ravines and 

coves, 
Therefore, sound it in full, as the subject be- 
hoves. 

Say Webster Groves! 
Groves! Groves! Groves! Groves! 
If you wish to partake of the fishes and loaves. 



For a grove is a thing that a farmer might own 

And manage the whole institution alone. 

But give it the " S," and it then becomes 
plain, 

You may look for a much more extended do- 
main. 

A grove's a grove ; 
A stove's a stove. 

It's the plural that makes all the difference, by 
Jove ! 



We've a Mayor and Council, a Marshall, and, 

more, 
We've a rock-pile to work, with a lock to the 

door; 
And whenever His Honor is called to a case, 
The defendant is sure of a permanent place — 



WEBSTER GROVES 165 

"Rat, tat, tat, tat; 
Bat, bat, bat, bat"— 
Before the incumbent knows just where he's 
at. 



For our Fleming's a daisy and rides a fine 

horse — 
Isn't given to moping or fits of remorse — 
And a tramp is a thing he's inclined to detest, 
And of all recreation claims work is the best. 

That's why so few 

Of these are blew 
Into town on the winds that are constantly due. 

Then in morals as well we have climbed to 

the top, 
And are running so dry we've dispensed with 

all sop. 
Even beefsteak and pudding is served to us 

plain, 
And we've nothing to moisten our stomachs 

but rain. 

That's why the Groves 
Smell so of cloves 
When the trains bring us back to our shady 

alcoves. 



166 WEBSTER GROVES. 

To be sure, we're ambitious — propose to ex- 
tend 

Our limits, and thereby our neighbors be- 
friend ; 

May take in the County, and Carondelet, 
too ; 

And it's hinted our Mayor has his mind on 
St. Lou — 

Teach 'em to walk 
The Webster chalk 

With an eye on 'em, too, that belongs to a 
hawk. 



But the glory of Webster's the people them- 
selves, 

In their neat, cozy homes, with good books on 
the shelves ; 

And the high moral tone that pervades the 
whole place, 

Giving charm to the speech and ennobling the 
face ; 

Where grocers trust 
Years, if they must, 

And a poet's not expected to live on a crust. 



WEBSTER GROVES. 167 

So here's to the Groves that we all love so 

well! 
Oh, to name them's enough our emotions to 

swell ! 
Where the lanes are so long, and the shadows 

so dense, 
And the ladies (God bless them!) have beauty 

and sense. 

Long may they live 
Pleasure to give, 
Nor remind us too soon of the water and 

sieve! 



ONE SUMMER. 

Van Blarcom, living in a flat 
In town, concluded one day that 
He'd move into the country where 
He'd have more quiet and fresh air. 

So, hiring a van or two — 
A moving van I mean — eh? you 
Are following the tale, I ween — 
For there's a difference between 

A van that goes on wheels and one 
That moves his own two legs upon. 
And this particular van, instead 
Of having wheels, was a biped. 

So to the country straight he went, 
On rural pleasures fully bent — 
His wife and children all elate — 
A picture fair to contemplate. 



ONE SUMMER 169 



Arriving at his new retreat, 
He christened it his country seat, 
And took great pride in pointing out 
The things of interest thereabout. 

"This walnut tree," he said to one 
"I'm proud to say, we dote upon ; 

The shade one very much enjoys. 

Besides, the nuts' 5 — there came a noise 

Of something falling through the leaves ; 
It bounds from bough to bough ; it cleaves 
His shining pate ; he grasps the same 
And utters words I fear to name. 

He strolleth next where roses bloom 
And petals reach in quest of room, 
And violets in sweet repose — 
A hornet lights upon his nose. 

He crieth out in sudden pain — 
There comes a shower that isn't rain, 
And darker tints pervade the air 
Till blue's the color everywhere. 

Then in the gloaming, quite elate, 
He strolleth forth to meditate. 
"This silence is the food of thought," 
He saith within. "A poet ought " — 



170 ONE SUMMER. 



Creak, creak, creak, creak," the frogs reply 
He slackens pace, he heaves a sigh — 
His poem flown, his thought undone — 
O, would that I had brought my gun!" 

He seeks the house, but finds it not. 
A cyclone at that moment shot 
Across the yard at double-quick ; 
He feeleth sad, he looketh sick. 

He gathers up what there is left — 
One van is equal to the heft — 
And hieth him again to town, 
Determined there to settle down. 



ORANGE BLOSSOM. 

" He wuz jerked an' fined las' night an' locked 

up in the calaboose ; 
An' he said ef he could fin' you, 'at he thought 

he might git loose, 
Fur we're sendin' 'em all to the rocks ez can't 

put up the stamps — 
It's the unly way to git rid o' these here loafers 

an' tramps. 

81 Who ken it be, I wonder? an' what does he 

say is his name? 
Bin on a bum? er got busted a-buckin' agin 

the game?" 
"Don't trouble yourse'f about that, sir; ef I 

knows a " vag," at sight, 
We hain't hed sech another un locked up 

here this many a night. 



172 ORANGE BLOSSOM. 

" That's him over thar in the cell, an' he's 

lookin' at you now 
In a kin' o' familiar manner — you'll know 

him, I allow." 
"What! Orange Blossom! you durned ol' 

orn'ry Loosiana shake! 
Well, ef this here don't git me! Say, jes 

bring us in suthin' to take. 

" Know him — don't talk! W'y, I've knowed 

him ever sence I wuz a colt! 
When it comes to knowin' ol' Blossom, I 

reckon 'at's my bes' holt. 
Don't set thar rollin' your ox-eyes, but fling 

this under your belt, 
An' say ef 't ain't ez good ez ever your etraw- 

berry smelt. 

"You see, the ol' man never smiles — he's 

too much business fur that — 
'Cept when he ben's that air elbow; then you 

ken jes take my hat 
Ef he ken't hide mo' co'n-juice 'an any 

critter you ever knowed — 
W'y, a bar'l a week ain't nothin' to what he's 

afore now stowed ! 



ORANGE BLOSSOM. 173 

"Blossom's oPer 'an any o' 'em; the planks 

in the wharf all know him ; 
Ef you talk 'bout the fishes, he'll say how he 

Parnt 'em to swim; 
He ken tell you o' the big battle an' that air 

pipe o' rum 
Into which they packed the Gin'ral an' shipped 

him off fur hum. 

" See, he shets his trap at that ez tight ez a 

oyster er clam, 
Fur it riles the oP man to think o' that air oP 

Packenham. 
He wouldn't min' ef they took all the cotton 

'at they could git — 
But to spile a cask o' licker 's 'nough to make 

him hev a fit. 

" Jes how long he's bin on the river it would 

n't be easy to say ; 
Some think 'fore De Soto ; anyhow, he kem 

here to stay. 
He's no snowbird — you hear me — 'at kerns 

flyin' down here in the fall, 
An' lights out agin in the spring when he hez 

raked in a haul. 



174 ORANGE BLOSSOM. 

"You see he coppers on style; hed that suit 
long 'fore the war; 

Says, ' Ef clo'es ain't made to w'ar, then what 
on earth air they for?' 

Economy? That's no name fur it! Extrava- 
gance he abhors — 

W'y, he h'ists the legs o' his socks, when the 
feet air played, fur draw'rs. 

" Onct Blossom wuz cook on a boat 'at run on 

the lower Coas', 
A-flingin' Confed'rate hash, an' stirrin' up 

quail on toas' 
Fur the officers o' the war, which wuz goin' on 

at full bias', 
Till one day she wuz busted o' grub — he hed 

cooked up the las'. 

" 'Twuz rough on 'em all, sure, an' theCap'n 
got mos' awfully thin, 

Fur he'd gone a whole week er more 'thout 
h'istin' a squar' meal in; 

So he says to Blossom, says he — you remem- 
ber it good enough, — 

' Whar's your science? Ken't you stir up 
suthin', if it's on'y duff?' 



ORANGE BLOSSOM. 175 

" Then he sot up sech a thinkin' ez he walked 

the starboard guard, 
You'd hev thought him ol' Napoleon, ef you'd 

hev looked in on him, pard, 
Jes goin' into battle ; but when he flung on to 

the fire 
That copper-colored saucepan — the effluvium 

— oh, Mariar! 

"Well, he stirs up a dish o' suthin' er other 
'at he'd foun' 

'At caused the dogs fur to howl an' the buz- 
zards to fly aroun'. 

'Twuz seventeen hours a-bilin', an' yit wuz a 
little tough ; 

But when a man's savage hungry, why, any- 
thing' s good enough. 

" They all 'lowed it tasted bully, an' passed 

up their plates fur more, 
An' the Cap'n says to Blossom, ' Why didn't 

you give us this afore ? 
Now, tell us how you made it, an' what 

yarbs you used, an' roots.' 
'I made that air,' says Blossom, 'frum a pa'r 

of ol' stogy boots!' 



176 ORANGE BLOSSOM. 

"Knew him? Well, I sh'd say so! Ever 

sence 'at I wuz a colt ; 
When it kerns to knowin' ol' Blossom, I 'low 

that's my bes' holt. 
We ust to loaf together, an' sleep out on the 

sacks an' bales, 
When it kerns to gilt-edge loafin', Orange is 

one o' your whales. 

" But what's your bill? Le's hev it; it's gittin' 

time fur to go. 
Figger in the ol' man's fine — fur I ken't leave 

him here, you know. 
He's hunted up hash fur me 'fore now when it 

wuz hard to fin', 
An' I ain't a-goin' to quit the 'boose an' leave 

the ol' man behin'." 



LOG CABIN BOYS. 

Log Cabin Boys — here's a few: 

Where* d you get Lincoln? — and, say, who 

Sent you Grant, and Sheridan, too; 

Corwin and Old Tippecanoe ; 

General Jackson, who pulled through, 

At New Orleans, the Boj^s in Blue 

When all those red-coat British flew? 

And Tecumseh, who led the crew 

That cut the brave old South in two 

And hoisted the old flag anew? 

And Whitelaw Reid and John Hay grew 

Up the same way. The same is true 

Of Garfield the assassin slew. 

And, cracky! there's McKinley — whew! 

Well, these are only just a few 

Log Cabin Boys (but guess they'll do), 

Who helped to pull the country through 

And leave it unimpaired to you. 



SPAR ISLAND BAR. 

' ' Heave, hearties ! run her down two blocks ! ' ' 

said the mate; " stretch away! 
Take a tu'n with the hawser, Knox; be quick 

— it wants to pay! 
Steady, my lads! jerk out your bars, an' all 

han's pipe to grub ; 
Let her res' on her well-taut spars — she's gin 

us a tight rub." 

We wuzn't in a mil' state o' min' arter sparrin' 

fur two days, 
An' our feelin's wuzn't of that kin' 'at goes 

heavy on praise ; 
So when Maguire rema'ked to Knox, " Pass 

up that pan o' flitch," 
An' he passed it to Fatty Cox, you'djorto seed 

'em hitch! 



SPAR ISLAND BAR. 179 

They rammed their heads into the beans, an' 

their feet into the hash ; 
Kicked overboa'd the po'k an' greens quicker 

'an any flash ; 
The gravy upsot on Sykes's legs an' bu'nt him 

to the skin ; 
The coffee wuz spilt all over Meggs an' made 

the critter spin. 

They fit an' gouged mos' furiously, an' banged 

things lef an' right ; 
An' to see 'em poun' each other wuz an inter- 

estin' sight. 
Says Sandy, "I kin tan all sech dern ornery 

critters' hide ! 
Ye won't, eh? won't ye pass that flitch?"— 

they both played out an' died. 

We buried 'em on Spar Islan' Bar, with their 

fightin' ha'ness on, 
An' sot a boa'd above the pa'r of heroes 'at 

wuz gone ; 
But sorrer filled the boat that day till ev'ry 

hea't wuz pricked 
To think the fight wuz throwed away, an' 

neither of 'em licked I 



THE VISION. 

While musing how the years had flown, 

With scarce a trace of victory, 
And garlands I had wove were prone 

To wither in obscurity, 
A vision rose of noble mein, 

And sang to harp, " Dismiss thy fears ; 
Let not ungarnered hopes restrain 

The efforts of the coming years." 

Then all was changed ; a stately hall 

Rose in the incandescent space. 
'He cometh now," aloud they call, 

While joy illumes each anxious face. 
And as he spoke, Promethean fire 

Leaped from his lips; and, lo! again 
The vision smote the trembling lyre : 
"Familiar he with toil and pain." 



THE VISION. 181 



A study, wherein works of art 

And bric-a-brac and books abound, 
Came next in view and stood apart, 

The envy of the world around. 
And, seated in his easy chair, 

A famous author plies his pen — 
'He, too, has wrestled with despair," 

The vision sang; "take heart again." 



THE UNION SOLDIER. 

'Twas not ambition nor the tinsel show 

Of conquest to despoil a weaker foe 

Nerved you to leave your hallowed home and 

go, 
Oh, warrior of our later, broader day, 
And bear our flag victorious in the fray. 



Nor yet for fame, the old, old theme and cry, 

That leads the noblest to dare and die, 

But lo/e for man and for humanity 

And the oppressed. We know that thou 

didst feel 
The blow that smote the slave — the tyrant's 

heel. 



THE UNION SOLDIER. 183 

'Tis meet the laurel 'round the brow should 

cling, 
Whose only boast is that of suffering ; 
Who claims no battles won — no conquering — 
Taking the vanquished brother to thy breast, 
And trusting to the future all the rest. 



So shall thy deeds live on through coming 

years 
In spectral majesty — when disappears 
Thy bent and aged form, and dried the tears 
Which from affection's fountains still must 

flow 
Till all who knew and loved thee are laid low. 



THE CHURCH AT SORBY. 

" Ther's nothin' parfec' in this worl'," is my 

philosophy, 
An' we're about ez ap' ez not to bark up the 

wrong tree, 
Fur things air alus happenin' 'at seem 'way 

out o* place, 
An', to a moral, thinkin' man, a scandalous 

disgrace. 

What I am drivin' at is this — jes sit down; 

ther's a cha'r ; 
An' I will do my level bes' to make the whole 

thing cl'ar ; 
Fur time hez dulled my memory an' cu'bed 

my use o' speech, 
An' many things I ust to know air now cl'ar 

out o' reach. 



THE CHURCH AT SORBY. 185 

The craps wuz comin' on right fine, the co'n 

wuz up knee-high ; 

The wheat wuz ripenin' han'somely, so wuz 

the oats an' rye, 
An' ev'ry thing wuz prospering jes ez the Loci 

hez said 

It should be with the hones' fo'ks 'at 'arn the'r 

daily bread. 

An' so His Wo'd seemed jestified by ev'ry- 

thing aroun', 
An' then, to make it mo' complete, His grace 

it did aboun', 
Fur while the fa'mer bushed his peas an' sot 

up his bean-poles, 
The pa'son wuz a-prosperin' in rakin' in the 

souls. 



Bassy Prather he come for'ard, an' so did 

Larfln Bill 
Grubbs, an' all them scoffin' Tanners frum 

over by the mill 
On Eagle Crick ; an' then ther' wuz that 

wicked Sandy Moore, 
Who hedn't bin inside a chu'ch fur twenty 

year afore. 



1 86 THE CHURCH AT SORBY. 

He come up, too, an' 'lowed 'at he'd throw up 

all his strife 
An' gredges, an' the likes o' that, an' lead a 

a diff'rent life. 
An' when the meetin' it wuz out, we ev'ry one 

dispe'sed 
Fur Sorby, down on Hardin Crick, to see 'em 

all imme'sed. 



The pa'son waded in the crick, the people 

gethered 'roun', 
An' stood wher' an uprooted tree hed riz a 

little moun' ; 
But when he took a brother by the han' to 

lead him out, 
You'd thought ol* Nick hisse'f wuz ther' ef 

you'd a-hearn him shout. 

An' then the sisters they broke out an' shook 

the'r petticoats, 
An' frum that on the'r singin' wuzn't 'cordin' 

to the notes. 
Ol' Grimes he rubbed his cheek an' neck, an' 

sot up sech a cry, 
An' all at once the pa'son put his han' up to 

his eye. 



THE CHURCH AT SORBY. 187 

An' then he struck out lef an' right, an' pawed 

about the a'r 
Ez ef he hed the tremens an' the snakes they 

lied him ther'. 
He jumped about three feet, an' then went 

under out o' sight, 
An' when the good man made the bank' you'd 

orto've seed him kite ! 



Some went this way an* some went that, an' 

some rolled on the groun', 
An' in two shakes of a sheep's tail, ther' wuz 

n't a soul aroun'. 
They hed stirred up a ho' net's nes' ther' in 

that little knoll, 
An' that's what caused ev'ry one to lose the'r 

se'f-control. 



It wuz a Prisbyterian trick; at leas' I'm satis- 
fied 

They planted that air ho'net's nes' down by 
the water's side, 

Fur ever sence the neighborhood with sprink- 
lin' hez bin cu'sed. 

While not a single critter ther' hez ever bin 
imme'sed. 



THE CHURCH AT SORBY. 



" Ther's nothin' parfec' in this worl'," is my 

philosophy, 
But why the Lo'd permitted this is a mystery 

to me ; 
Fur ev'ry member struck fur home an* lef us 

in the lu'ch — 
An' so that pesky ho' net's nes' broke up our 

Baptis' Chu'ch. 




y^Eons had passed away ere this occurred, 
Civilizations of which we've not heard. 
Pandemonium, holding reign supreme, 
Hope seemed to vanish and leave not a beam. 



Then God surveyed His work, and pity came. 
Thou art my children all, thine is the flame. 
Soul of my soul art thou, breath of my 

breath — 
Frightened by what you see, palsied by 

death. 



190 L'ENVOI. 



"Thine is the thrift of weeds, strangling the 

grain ; 
Blindness, by blindness, led leads but to pain. 
Folly alone impedes thy swift advance, 
Yet to learn my will, there is one more 
chance." 

Then westward sailed a mariner, and, lo ! 
A vast new continent man came to know. 
"Sleep no more," God said, "in obscurity. 
Thou hast before thee a grand destiny. 

'•Here will I rest my work, — here make the 

test. 
Man that has known his worst, here know 

his best ; 
Liberty untrammeled, with no tyrant nigh, 
Master of his will and of his destiny. 

"Here the new life begin in the new land ; 
It shall be glorious, it shall be grand. 
Every ingenious work man may contrive 
Till things inanimate seem half alive. 

"Art shall perfection reach; Science as well; 
Learning exhausted leave nothing to tell ; 
Everything understood, everything done — 
There can be nothing new under the sun. 



L'ENVOI. 



IQI 



"Envy long vanished, and slander long dumb, 
The Millennium finally shall come, 
And my Word fully justified at last, 

The long- promised trump shall sound its blast. 




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MISSISSIPPI RIVER YARNS, . 
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COMPLIMENTARY NOTICES. 

In Mr. Carter's work we find all the moods repre- 
sented. We have dialect in plenty, together with 
more elegant numbers; there is a fun that sweeps the 
gamut all the way from wit to burlesque; there is 
ever and anon a touch of pathos, masterful in its del- 
icacy; simplicity abounds on every page and in the 
wholesomeness of the poet's mspira.ion and en- 
deavor. — [Eugene Field. 

"Thomas Rutherton," by John Henton Carter: 
A story of personal experience, told by the author in 
a plain, straightforward way, not without a touch of 
humor and a gleam of bright characterization. A 
little more and one would think this was another 
" Story of a Country Town "; as it is, it reads like a 
record of actual experience, varied and enlivened by 
some imaginative power. — [Atlantic Monthly. 

The author's long experience as a newspaper man 
has enabled him to write of newspaper life under- 
standing^, and his happy way of relating reminis- 
cences gives a charm to the story that is hardly to be 
found in the best of Mark Twain's books. — [St. Louis 
Star. 

'•Thomas Rutherton" is one of the best Missis- 
sippi River tales ever published. — [St. Louis Re- 
public. 

A story that no ambitious country boy should be 
without. — [Literary World. 



I^OLLtlNGPIN PUBLISHING (§OMPAKY, 
ST. LOUIS, MO. 



